ANTHOLOGIES 

BY  CAROLYN  WELLS 


A  VERS  DE  SOCIETE  ANTHOLOGY 
A  WHIMS  EY  ANTHOLOGY 
A  SATIRE  ANTHOLOGY 
A  PARODY  ANTHOLOGY 
A  NONSENSE  ANTHOLOGY 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


A  Parody  Anthology 


BY 

CAROLYN  WELLS 

AUTHOR    OF    "A    NONSENSE    ANTHOLOGY* 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1922 


/cxv^<-«x-C. 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  September,  1904 


TO 

MRS.   THEODORE   ROOSEVELT 


592643 


NOTE 

ACKNOWLEDGMENT  is  hereby  gratefully  made  to  the  pub- 
lishers of  the  various  parodies  for  permission  to  include  them 
in  this  compilation. 

The  parodies  from  "Diversions  of  the  Echo  Club/*  by 
Bayard  Taylor,  and  Mary  and  Her  Lamb,  from  "  New 
Waggings  of  Old  Tales,"  by  Frank  Dempster  Sherman, 
are  published  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Company. 

By  the  courtesy  of  John  Lane  are  included  the  parodies  of 
Anthony  C.  Deane,  from  his  volume  "  New  Rhymes  for 
Old  ;  "  and  those  of  Owen  Seaman,  from  volumes  "In  Cap 
and  Bells  "  and  "  The  Battle  of  the  Bays." 

Bed  During  Exams  is  from  "  Cap  and  Gown,"  published 
by  Messrs.  L.  C.  Page  &  Company. 

The  Golfer's  Rubaiyat,  by  H.  C.  Boynton,  is  from  "A 
Book  of  American  Humorous  Verse,"  published  by  Messrs. 
Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Company. 

Staccato  to  O  Le  Lupe  is  from  "  Last  Scenes  from  Vaga- 
bondia,"  by  Bliss  Carman  and  Richard  Hovey,  published  by 
Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Company. 

The  two  poems  by  Ben  King  are  published  by  Forbes 
&  Co. 

The  following  are  published  by  Charles  ScribneFs  Sons  : 
Song,  from  "  The  Book  of  Joyous  Children,"  by  Jamej 
Whitcomb  Riley  ;  Home  Sweet  Home,  and  Imitation,  from 
"  Poems"  of  H.  C.  Bunner  ;  and  Song  of  a  Heart,  and 
Godiva,  from  "Overheard  in  a  Garden,"  by  Oliver 
Herford. 


CONTENTS 


AFTER  OMAR  KHAYYAM  PAGE 

The  Golfer's  Rubaiyat .     .     .  H.  W.  Boynton    ...  3-^ 

An  Omar  for  Ladies     .     .     .  Josephine Daskam  Bacon  5—. 

The  Modern  Rubaiyat      .     .  Kate  Masterson     ...  7 

Lines  Written  by  Request     .  Owen  Seaman  ....  10 

The  Baby's  Omar     ....  Carolyn  Wells      ...  12 

AFTER  CHAUCER 

Ye  Clerk e  of  ye  Wethere      .  Anonymous      ....  14 

AFTER  SPENSER 

A  Portrait John  Keats      ....  15 

AFTER  SHAKESPEARE 

The  Bachelor's  Soliloquy      .  Anonymous .     .     .     .     .  17 

Poker Anonymous 18 

Toothache Anonymous 19 

A  Dreary  Song Shirley  Brooks      ...  20 

To    the    Stall-holders    at    a 

Fancy  Fair W.  S.  Gilbert  ....  21 

Song  .     . /.  W.  Riley 22 

The  Whist  Player's  Soliloquy  Carolyn  Wells .     .     .     .  23 

AFTER  WITHER 

Answer  to  Master  Wither's 

Song Ben  Jonson       ....  25 

AFTER  HERRICK 

Song *,  Oliver  Herford     ...  27 

To  Julia  Under  Lock  and  Key  Owen  Seaman  .    ...  27^*" 

AFTER  NURSERY  RHYMES 

An  Idyll  of  Phatte  and  Leene     Anonymous 29 

Nursery     Song     in      Pidgin 

English Anonymous 30 

[ixj 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  House  that  Jack  Built    .  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  31 

Boston  Nursery  Rhymes  .     .  Rev.  Joseph  Cook  ...  32 

A  Song  of  a  Heart  ....  Oliver  Herford     ...  33 

The  Domicile  of  John  .     .     .  A.  Pope  ......  34 

Mary  and  the  Lamb ....  Frank  Dempster  Sherman  37 

AFTER  WALLER 

The  Aesthete  to  the  Rose     .  Punch 40 

AFTER  DRYDEN 

Three  Blessings Anonymous 41 

Oyster  Crabs Carolyn  Wells      ...  41 

AFTER  DR.  WATTS 

The  Voice  of  the  Lobster      \  Lewis  Carroll  ....  42 

The  Crocodile Lewis  Carroll  ....  43 

AFTER  GOLDSMITH 

When  Lovely  Woman .     .     .  Phoebe  Cary      ....  44 

AFTER  BURNS 

Gaelic  Speech Anonymous      ....  45 

»  •  -My  Foe Anonymous      ....  46 

Rigid  Body  Sings     .     .     .     .  /.  C.  Maxwell ....  48 

AFTER  CATHERINE  FANSHAWE 
Cockney    Enigma     on     the 

Letter  H Horace  Mayhew   ...  49 

AFTER  WORDSWORTH 

. — -  On  Wordsworth Anonymous      ....  51 

Jacob Phoebe  Cary      ....  51 

Fragment     . Catherine  M.  Fanshawe  52 

— «»  Jane  Smith Rudyard  Kipling      .    .  54 

— *  Only  Seven '  Henry  S.  Leigh    ...  55 

•—  Lucy  Lake Newton  Mackintosh  .     .  57 

AFTER  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

Young  Lochinvar     ....  Anonymous      ....  58 

AFTER  COLERIDGE 

The  Ancient  Mariner    .     .     .  Anonymous 61 

Striking Charles  S.  Calverley      .  64 


Contents 


\FTER    SOUTHEY  pAGB 

The  Old  Man's  Cold    .     .     .  Anonymous      ....  66 

Father  William Lewis  Carroll  ....  67 

Lady  Jane A.  T.  Quiller-Couch      .  69 

\FTER  CAMPBELL 

The  New  Arrival      ....  George  W.  Cable  ...  72 

John  Thompson's  Daughter .  Phoebe  Gary     ....  73 

A.FTER  THOMAS  MOORE 

The  Last  Cigar Anonymous      ....  76 

'T  was  Ever  Thus     ....  Anonymous      ....  77 
There 's   a   Bower  of  Bean- 
Vines  Phcebe  Gary      ....  78 

Disaster  . Charles  S.  Calverley     .  79 

Sarah's  Halls Judy 80 

'T  was  Ever  Thus     ....  Henry  S.  Leigh    ...  81 

AFTER  JANE  TAYLOR 

The  Bat Lewis  Carroll      ...       82 

AFTER  BARRY  CORNWALL 

The  Tea Tom  Hood,  Jr.     ...      83 

AFTER  BYRON 

The  Rout  of  Belgravia     .    .    Jon  Duan 84 

A  Grievance /.  K.  Stephen 85 

AFTER  CHARLES  WOLFE 

The  Burial  of  the  Bachelor  .     Anonymous 88 

Not  a  Sou  had  He  Got    >.     .    R.  Harris  Barham   .     .      89 

The   Marriage   of   Sir   John 

Smith Phoebe  Gary     91 

AFTER  MRS.  HEMANS 

The  Thyroid  Gland .     .     .     .    JR.  M. 93 

AFTER  KEATS 

Ode  on  a  Jar  of  Pickles     .     .     Bayard  Taylor    ...      94 

AFTER  HEINE 

Imitation H.  C.  Bunner      ...      96 

Commonplaces Rudyard  Kipling      .    .      97 

[xi] 


Contents 


AFTER  HOOD 

The  Dripping  Sheet     .     .     . 

I  Remember,  I  Remember    . 
AFTER  ALFRED  BUNN 

A  Yule  Tide  Parody    .    .    . 

Self-Evident 

AFTER  LORD  MACAULAY 

The  Laureate's  Tourney   .     . 
AFTER  EMERSON 

Mutton . 

AFTER  MARY  HOWITT 

The  Lobster  Quadrille  .     .    . 
AFTER  MRS.  BROWNING 

In  the  Gloaming 

Gwendoline 

AFTER  LONGFELLOW 
• — The  Modern  Hiawatha     .    . 

Higher 

Topside  Galah 

Excelsior 

The  Day  is  Done     .... 

A  Psalm  of  Life 

How  Often 

Desolation 

The  Birds  and  the  Pheasant . 
AFTER  WHITTIER 

Hiram  Hover 

AFTER  MRS.  NORTON 

The  Horse  and  his  Master    . 

The  New  Version    .... 
AFTER  POE 

What  Troubled  Poe's  Raven 

The  Amateur  Flute  .... 

Samuel  Brown      .     .     .     .     . 

The  Promissory  Note  .     .     . 
[  xii 


Anonymous       .     .     . 
Phoebe  Gary      .     .     . 

Anonymous 
J.  R.  Planchl   .     .     . 

William  Aytoun  . 
Anonymous 
Lewis  Carroll  .     .     . 

Charles  S.  Calverley 
Bayard  Taylor     .     . 

Anonymous 

Anonymous      .  .  . 

Anonymous      .  .  . 

Anonymous      ,  .  . 

Phcebe  Cary      .  .  '. 

Phoebe  Cary      .  .  . 
Ben  King   .... 

Thomas  Masson  . 
Punch     . 


Bayard  Taylor 

Philip  F.  Allen 
W.J.  Lampton 

John  Bennett    . 
Anonymous 
Phcebe  Cary 
Bayard  Taylor 

J 


PAGE 

98 

101 

103 
IO4 

105 

"3 
114 

116 
118 

120 

120 
122 
124 
126 
127 
129 

'3<> 

131 

133 

I3J 
138 

139 

140 

142 

F43 


Contents 


PACK 

The  Cannibal  Flea  ....  Tom  Hood,  Jr.      .     .     .  145. 

Annabel  Lee Stanley  Huntlcy  .     .     .  147 

The  Bells Judy 148 

The  Goblin  Goose    ....     Punch 150 

AFTER  LORD  HOUGHTON 

Love  and  Science Anonymous      ....  153 

AFTER  TENNYSON 

The  Bather's  Dirge       .     .     .  Tennyson  Minor  .     .     .  155 

Little  Miss  Muffet    ....  Anonymous      ....  156 

The  Musical  Pitch    ....  Anonymous      ....  158 

To  an  Importunate  Host  .     .  Anonymous      ....  158 

The  Village  Choir    ....     Anonymous 159 

The  Biter  Bit William  Aytoun  .     .     .  161 

The  Laureate William  Aytoun   .     .     .  163 

The  Lay  of  the  Lovelorn  .     .  William  Aytoun  .     .     .  165- 

In  Immemoriam Cuthbert  Bedc  ....  1 74 

Sir  Eggnogg Bayard  Taylor     .     .     .  175 

Godiva Oliver  Herford     .     .     .  177 

A  Laureate's  Log     ....    Punch 178 

The  Recognition       ....  Wm.  Sawyer    .    .    .     .  180 
The  Higher  Pantheism  in  a 

Nutshell A.  C.  Swinburne      .     .180 

Timbuctoo  ........  W.  M.  Thackeray    .     .  183 

AFTER  TUPPER 

Of  Friendship      .....  Charles  S.  Calverley      .  185 

Of  Reading Charles  S.  Calverley      .  186 

AFTER  THACKERAY 

The  Willow-Tree      .     .     .     .  W.  M.  Thackeray,     .     .  188 

AFTER  CHARLES  DICKENS 

Man's  Place  in  Nature      .     .  Anonymous      ....  191 

AFTER  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Home  Truths  from  Abroad  .  Anonymous      .     .     .     .  193 

After  Browning Anonymous 194 

The  Cock  and  the  Bull     .     .  Charles  S.  Calverley      .  i<^5 

A  Staccato  to  O  Le  Lupe      .  Bliss  Carman  ....  200 


Contents 


By  the  Sea  

Bayard  Taylor     . 
Bayard  Taylor     . 
Rudyard  Kipling 
Rudyard  Kipling 
J.  K.  Stephen   .     . 
/.  K.  Stephen  .     . 
A.  C.  Swinburne 

Anonymous      .     . 
Bayard  Taylor 
Judy  

PAGE 
.  .  203 
.  .  205 
.  .  206 
.  .  210 
.  .  210 
.  .  212 
•  •  215 

.  .  2I9 

.  .  220 

Angelo  Orders  his  Dinner     . 
The  Flight  of  the  Bucket  .     . 
The  Jam  Pot   

Imitation  of  Robert  Browning 
The  Last  Ride  Together  .     . 
Up  the  Spout  
AFTER  WALT  WHITMAN 
An    American,    one    of    the 
Roughs,  a  Kosmos    .     .     . 
Camerados  

Imitation  of  Whitman  .     .     . 
Imitation  of  Whitman  .     .     . 
The  Poet  and  the  Woodrouse 

y.  K.  Stephen       . 
A.  C.  Swinburne  . 

.  .  224 
.  .  224 

AFTER  CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

Three  Little  Fishers     .     .    .    Frank  H.  Stauffer     .    .     229 
The  Three  Poets     ....     Lilian  Whiting     ...     230 

AFTER  MRS.  R.  H.  STODDARD 

The  Nettle  .  " Bayard  Taylor     .     .     .     231 . 

AFTER  BAYARD  TAYLOR 

Hadramaut Bayard  Taylor     .     .     .     233 

AFTER  WILLIAM  MORRIS 

Estunt  the  Griff        ....     Rudyard  Kipling      .     .     235 

AFTER  ALFRED  AUSTIN 

An  Ode Anthony  C.  Deane     .     .     237 

AFTER  W.  S.  GILBERT 

Ode  to  a  London  Fog  .     .     .    Anonymous      ....     239 

President  Garfield    ....     Anonymous 240 

Propinquity  Needed     .     .     .     Charles  Battell  Loomts  .     241 

AFTER  R.  H.  STODDARD 

The  C  antelope Bayard  Taylor     .     .     .     243 

AFTER  A.  A.  PROCTOR 

The  Lost  Voice A.  H.  S. 244 

The  Lost  Ape /.  W.  G.  W.    ....     245 

The  Lost  Word C.  H.  Webb      ....     246 

[xiv] 


Contents 


AFTER  GEORGE  MEREDITH  PAGE 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Cock  .     .  Owen  Seaman  ....  248 

AFTER  D.  G.  ROSSETTI 

A  Christmas  Wail    .     .     .     .  Anonymous       ....  252 

Ballad Charles  S.  Calverley      .  253 

Cimabuella Bayard  Taylor     .     .     .  255 

The  Poster  Girl Carolyn  Wells      ...  257 

AFTER  JEAN  INGELOW 

Lovers,  and  a  Reflection  .     .  Charles  S.  Calverley      .  259 

The  Shrimp  Gatherers     .     .  Bayard  Taylor     .     .     .  261 

AFTER  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

Remember .  Judy 263 

AFTER  LEWIS  CARROLL 

Waggawocky Shirley  Brooks      .    .     .  264 

The   Vulture   and  the  Hus- 
band-Man       A.  C.  Hilton    ....  265 

AFTER  A.  C.  SWINBURNE 

Gillian Anonymous      ....  268 

Atalanta  in  Camden-town      .  Lewis.  Carroll  ....  270 

The  Manlet Lewis  Carroll  ....  272 

If Mortimer  Collins      .     .274 

The  Maid  of  the  Meerschaum  Rudy ard  Kipling      .     .  275 

Quaeritur Rudyard  Kipling     .     .  277 

A  Melton  Mowbray  Pork-pie  Richard  Le  Gallienne    .  278 

Foam  and  Fangs      ....  Walter  Parke  ....  278 

A  Song  of  Renunciation  .     .  Owen  Seaman  ....  279 

Nephelidia A.  C.  Swinburne  ...  282 

The  Lay  of  Macaroni   .     .     .  Bayard  Taylor     .    .    .  284 

AFTER  BRET  HARTE 

The  Heathen  Pass-ee  .    .     .  A.  C.  Hilton    .     .     .    .  286 

DeTeaFabula A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  .  .  289 

AFTER  AUSTIN  DOB  SON 

The  Prodigals Anonymous 292 

AFTER  ANDREW  LANG 

Bo-Peep  ........  Anthony  C.  Deane    .    .  294 

[XV] 


L'ont  ent  s 


AFTER  W.  E.  HENLEY  PAGE 

Imitation Anthony  C.  Deane    .     .  296 

AFTER  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

Bed  During  Exams  ....  Clara  Warren  Vail  .     .  298 

AFTER  OSCAR  WILDE 

More  Impressions    ....  Oscuro  Wildgoose      .     .  299 

Nursery  Rhymes  a  la  Mode  Anonymous      ....  299 

A  Maudle-In  Ballad    .     .     .     Punch 300 

Quite  the  Cheese     .     .     .     .  H.  C.  Waring      ...  302 

AFTER  WILLIAM  WATSON 

The  Three  Mice Anthony  C.  Deane    .     .  304 

AFTER  KIPLING 

Fuzzy  Wuzzy  Leaves  Us  .    .    E.  P.  C. 305 

A  Ballad Guy  Wetmore  Carryl    .  307 

Jack  and  Jill Anthony  C.  Deane    .     .  309 

The  Legend  of  Realism    .     .  Hilda  Johnson      .     .     .  313 

AFTER  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

Little  Jack  Homer  ....  Anthony  C.  Deane    .    .  315 

AFTER  FIONA  MCLEOD 

The  Cult  of  the  Celtic      .     .  Anthony  C.  Deane    .     .  317 

AFTER  VARIOUS  WRITERS  OF  VERS  DE  SOCIETE 

Behold  the  Deeds    .     .     .     .  H.  C.  Bunner  ....  319 

Culture  in  the  Slums     .     .     .  W.  E.  Henley  ....  322 

A  Ballade  of  Ballade-Mongers  Augustus  Moore    .     .    .  322 

AFTER  VARIOUS  POPULAR  SONGS 

Beautiful  Snow Anonymous 324 

The  Newest  Thing  in  Christ- 
mas Carols Anonymous 325 

The  Tale  of  Lord  Lovell  .     .     Anonymous 326 

'*  Songs  Without  Words "     .  Robert  J.  Burdette     .     .  327 

The  Elderly  Gentleman    .     .  George  Canning   .     .     .  328 

Turtle  Soup Lewis  Carroll  ....  329 

Some  Day F.  P.  Doveton  ....  329 

If  I  Should  Die  To-night      .     Ben  King 331 

f  xvi   ] 


Contents 


PACK 

A  Love  Song  .     .....     Dean  Swiff .     .     .    .    .  331 

Old  Fashioned  Fun      .     .     .     W.  M.  Thackeray     .    .  333 

THEMES  WITH  VARIATIONS 
Home     Sweet     Home    with 

Variations     .     .     .     .     .     .     H.  C.  Bunner ....  334 

MODERN  VERSIFICATION  ON  ANCIENT  THEMES 

Goose  a  la  Mode      ....£.  Cavazza 346 

Three  Children  Sliding 346 

Jack  and  Jill E.  Cavazza 347 

Jack  and  Jill '  Charles  Battell  Loonns  .  348 

The      Rejected      "  National 

Hymns " Robert  Henry  Newell     .  352 

A  Theme  with  Variations      .     Barry  Pain      ....  356 

The  Poets  at  Tea     ....     Barry  Pain      ....  359 

The  Poets  at  a  House  Party     Carolyn  Wells .    .    .     .  363 

An  Old  Song  by  New  Singers     A.  C.  Wilkie    ....  368 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 375 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS    .    .    .    • 385 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  PARODIED 395 


xvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

PARODY   AS   A   FINE   ART 

f  1  ^HE  fact  that  parody  has  been  ably  defended 

I  by  many  of  the  world's  best  minds  proves 
that  it  is  an  offensive  measure,  at  least  from 
some  viewpoints.  But  an  analysis  of  the  argu- 
ments for  and  against  seems  to  show  that  parody 
is  a  true  and  legitimate  branch  of  art,  whose 
appreciation  depends  upon  the  mental  bias  of  the 
individual. 

To  enjoy  parody,  one  must  have  an  intense 
sense  of  the  humorous  and  a  humorous  sense  of 
the  intense  ;  and  this,  of  course,  presupposes  a 
mental  attitude  of  wide  tolerance  and  liberal 
judgments. 

Parodies  are  not  for  those  who  cannot  under- 
stand that  parody  is  not  necessarily  ridicule.  Like 
most  other  forms  of  literature,  unless  the  intent  of 
the  writer  be  thoroughly  understood  and  appreciated, 
the  work  is  of  little  value  to  the  reader. 

The  defenders  of  parody  have  sometimes  en- 
deavored to  prove  that  it  has  an  instructive  value, 
and  that  it  has  acted  as  a  reforming  influence 


A    Parody    Anthology 


against  mannerisms  and  other  glaring  defects. 
One  enthusiastic  partisan  confidently  remarks: 
u  It  may  gently  admonish  the  best  and  most 
established  writer,  when,  from  haste,  from  care- 
lessness, from  over-confidence,  he  is  in  danger  of 
forfeiting  his  reputation ;  it  may  gently  lead  the 
tyro,  while  there  is  yet  time,  from  the  wrong  into 
the  right  path."  But  this  ethical  air-castle  is 
rudely  shattered  by  facts,  for  what  established 
writer  ever  changed  his  characteristic  effects  as  a 
result  of  the  parodies  upon  his  works,  or  what 
tyro  was  ever  parodied  ? 

It  has  been  said,  too,  that  a  good  parody  makes 
us  love  the  original  work  better ;  but  this  state- 
ment seems  to  lack  satisfactory  proof  except, 
perhaps,  on  the  principle  that  a  good  parody 
may  lead  us  to  know  the  original  work  more 
thoroughly. 

Perhaps  the  farthest  fetched  argument  of  the 
zealous  advocates  of  the  moral  virtues  of  parody 
is  found  in  Lord  Jeffrey's  review  of  the  well- 
known  a Rejected  Addresses,"  where  he  says,  "The 
imitation  lets  us  more  completely  into  the  secret 
of  the  original  author,  and  enables  us  to  under- 
stand far  more  clearly  in  what  the  peculiarity  of 
his  manner  consists  than  most  of  us  would  ever 
have  done  without  this  assistance."  If  this  be 
true  at  all,  it  is  exemplified  in  very  few  instances, 
[  xxii  ] 


Introduction 


and  is  one  of  the  least  of  the  minor  reasons  for 
the  existence  of  a  paro'dy. 

The  main  intent  of  the  vast  majority  of  paro- 
dies is  simply  to  amuse ;  but  to  amuse  intelli- 
gently and  cleverly.  This  aim  is  quite  high 
enough,  and  is  in  no  way  strengthened  or  im- 
proved by  the  bolstering  up  qualities  of  avowed 
virtuous  influences. 

The  requirements  of  the  best  parody  are  in  a 
general  way  simply  the  requirements  of  the  best 
literature  of  any  sort ;  but,  specifically,  the  true 
parodist  requires  an  exact  mental  balance,  a  fine 
sense  of  proportion  and  relative  values,  good- 
humor,  refinement,  and  unerring  taste.  Self-con- 
trol and  self-restraint  are  also  needed  ;  a  parodist 
may  go  to  the  very  edge,  but  he  must  not  fall 
over. 

The  fact  that  poor  parodies  outnumber  the 
good  ones  in  the  ratio  of  about  ten  to  one 
(which  is  not  an  unusual  percentage  in  any  branch 
of  literature),  is  because  a  wide  and  generous 
sense  of  humor  is  so  rarely  found  in  combination 
with  the  somewhat  circumscribed  quality  of  good 
taste.  It  is,  therefore,  on  account  of  the  abuse  of 
parody,  and  not  the  use  of  it,  that  a  defence  of  the 
art  has  been  found  necessary. 

The  parody  has  the  sanction  of  antiquity,  and 
though  its  absolute  origin  is  uncertain,  and  various 
[  xxiii  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


u  Fathers  of  Parody  "  have  been  named,  it  is  safe 
to  assume  that  it  began  with  the  Greeks.  The 
Romans,  too,  indulged  in  it,  and  its  continuance 
has  been  traced  all  through  the  Middle  Ages ; 
but  these  ancient  parodies,  however  acceptable 
in  their  time,  are  of  little  interest  to  us  now, 
save  as  heirlooms.  Their  wit  is  coarse,  their 
humor  heavy ;  they  are  usually  caustic  and  often 
irreverent. 

In  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  the 
art  of  parody  began  to  improve,  and  during  the 
nineteenth  it  rose  to  a  height  that  demanded 
recognition  from  the  literary  world. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  age  of  English 
parody  was  ushered  in  by  such  masterpieces  as  the 
"  Rolliad  "  and  the  "  Anti-Jacobin,"  followed  by 
tne  "  Rejected  Addresses,  "  and  the  "  Bon  Gaultier 
Ballads."  Later  camevThackeray,  Calverley,  Swin- 
burne and  Lewis  Carroll,  also  Bayard  Taylor,  Bret 
Harte,  and  Phoebe  Gary.  More  modern  still  is  the 
work  of  Rudyard  Kipling,  Anthony  C.  Deane, 
H.  C.  Bunner,  and  Owen  SeamanT} 

Though  some  of  these  are  classed  among  the 
minor  poets,  they  are  all  major  parodists  and  ap- 
proach their  work  armed  at  all  points. 

The  casual  critic  of  parodies,  as  a  rule,  divides 
them  into  two  classes,  which,  though  under  vari- 
ous forms  of  terminology,  resolve  themselves  into 
[  xxiv  ] 


Introduction 


of  sound  and  parodies  of  sensed  But 
there  are  really  three  great  divisions,  which  may 
be  called  u  word-rendering,"  u  form-rendering," 
and  "  sense-rendering." 

y  The  first,  mere  ^vord-rendcrin^  is  simply  an 
imitation  of  the  original,  and  depends  for  its 
interest  entirely  upon  the  substitution  of  a  trivial 
or  commonplace  motive  for  a  lofty  one,  and 
following  as  nearly  as  possible  the  original 
words.^ 

/V Form-rendering  is  the  imitation  of  the  style  of  an 
author,  preferably  an  author  given  to  mannerisms 
or  affectation  of  some  sort.^XThe  third  division, 
sense-rendering,  is  by  far  the  most  meritorious, 
anc1  utilizes  not  only  the  original  writer's  diction 
and  style,  but  follows  a  train  of  thought  precisely 
along  the  lines  that  he  would  have  pursued  from 
the  given  premises.^ 

This  class  of  parody  is  seen  at  its  best  in  Cath- 
erine Fanshawe's  "  Imitation  of  Wordsworth,"  and 
Calverley's  "  The  Cock  and  the  Bull." 

But  though  parodies  of  this  sort  are  of  more 
serious  worth,  the  other  classes  show  examples 
quite  as  good  in  their  own  way. 

Lewis   Carroll's    immortal  parody  of  Souther's., 
u  Father  William "  is   merely  a  burlesque  of  the 
word-rendering  type,  yet  it  is  perfect  of  its  kind 
and  defies  adverse  criticism. 
[  xxv  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Miss  Gary  was  a  pioneer  of  parody  in  America 
and  one  of  the  few  women  writers  who  have 
done  clever  work  of  this  sort.  Miss  Gary's 
parodies  are  numerous  and  uniformly  first-class 
examples  of  their  kind.  They  are  collected  in  a 
small  book,  now  out  of  print,  and  are  well  worth 
reading. 

Of  course,  parodies  which  burlesque  the  actual 
words  of  the  original  are  necessarily  parodies  of 
some  particular  poem,  and  often  not  so  good  an 
imitation  of  the  style  of  the  author. 

More  difficult  than  the  parody  of  a  particular 
poem  is  ^hejunitatjorx  or  burlesque  of  the  literary 
style  of  an  author.  To  accomplish  this,  the  paron- 
dist  must  be  himself  a  master  of  style,  a  student 
of  language,  and  possessed  of  a^power  of  mimicry 
with  an  instant  appreciation  of  opportunities. 

"Diversions  of  the  Echo  Club,"  by  Bayard 
Taylor,  are  among  the  best  of  this  class  of  paro- 
dies. Aside  from  their  cleverness  they  are  marked 
by  good  taste,  fairness,  justice,  and  a  true  poetic 
instinct. 

Naturally,  parodies  of  literary  style  are  founded 
on  the  works  of  those  authors  whose  individual 
characteristics  invite  imitation. 

Parody  is  inevitable  where  sense  is  sacrificed  to 
sound,  where  affectations  of  speech  are  evident,  or 
where  unwarrantable  extravagance  of  any  sort  is 
[  xxvi  ] 


Introduction 


indulged  in.      This  explains  the    numerous    (and 
usually  worthless)  parodies  of  Walt  Whitman. 

Swinburne  and  Browning  are  often  parodied  for 
these  (perhaps  only  apparent)  reasons,  and  the 
poets  of  the  aesthetic  school  of  course  offered 
especially  fine  opportunities. 

Parodies  of  Rossetti  and  his  followers  are  often 
exceedingly  funny,  though  not  at  all  difficult  to 
write,  as  the  originals  both  in  manner  and  matter 
fairly  invite  absurd  incongruities. 

Nursery  Rhymes  seem  to  find  favor  with  the 
parodists  as  themes  to  work  upon.  A  collection 
of  Mother  Goose's  Melodies  as  they  have  been 
reset  by  clever  pens,  would  be  both  large  and 
interesting. 

The  masters  of  parody,  however,  are  as  a  rule  to 
be  found  among  the  master  poets.  Thackeray 
turned  his  genius  to  imitative  account ;  Swinburne 
parodied  himself  as  well  as  his  fellow-poets ;  Rud- 
yard  Kipling  has  done  some  of  the  best  parodies  in 
the  language,  and  C.  S.  Calverley's  burlesques  are 
classics.  The  work  of  these  writers  may  be  said 
to  be  in  the  third  class ;  for  not  only  do  they  pre- 
serve the  diction  and  style  of  the  author  imitated, 
but  they  seem  to  go  beyond  that,  and,  assimilating 
for  the  moment  his  very  mentality,  caricature 
not  only  his  expressed  thoughts  but  his  abstract 
cerebrations. 

[  xxvii  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


It  is  easy  to  understand  how  Swinburne  with  his 
facile  fancy  and  wonderful  command  of  words  could 
be  among  the  best  parodists.  In  his  "  Heptalogia  " 
are  long  and  careful  parodies  of  no  less  than  seven 
prominent  poets,  each  of  which  is  a  masterpiece, 
and  the  parody  of  Browning  is  especially  good. 
Browning,  of  course,  has  always  been  a  tempting 
mark  for  the  parodists,  but  though  it  is  easy  to 
imitate  his  eccentricities  superficially,  it  is  only 
the  greater  minds  that  have  parodied  his  subtler 
peculiarites.  Among  the  best  are  Calverley's  and 
Kipling's. 

Kipling's  parodies,  written  in  his  early  days,  and 
not  often  to  be  found  in  editions  of  his  collected 
works,  rank  with  the  highest.  His  parody  of 
Swinburne,  while  going  to  the  very  limit  of  legiti- 
mate imitation,  is  restrained  by  a  powerful  hand, 
and  so  kept  within  convincing  bounds.  The  great 
fault  with  most  parodies  of  Swinburne  is  that  exag- 
geration is  given  play  too  freely,  and  the  result  is 
merely  a  meaningless  mass  of  sound.  Clever  in  a 
different  way  is  Owen  Seaman's  parody  of  Swin- 
burne. Mr.  Seaman  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
of  modern  parodists  and  his  parodies,  though  long, 
are  perfect  in  all  respects. 

Among  the  most  exquisite  parodies  we  have 
ever  read  must  be  counted  those  of  Anthony  C. 
Deane,  originally  published  in  various  London 
[  xxviii  ] 


Introduction 


papers,  and  Calverley's  works  are  too  well  known 
even  to  require  mention. 

The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  is  often 
parodiec^,  but  rarely  worthily.  One  reason  for 
this  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  Omar  who  is 
parodied  at  all,  but  Fitzgerald  ;  consequently,  the 
imitation  is  merely  a  form-rendering  and  more 
often  only  lines  in  the  Rubaiyat  metre. 

Shakespeare,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two 
of  his  most  hackneyed  speeches,  is  rarely  parodied ; 
doubtless  owing  to  the  fact  that  his  harmonious 
work  shows  no  incongruities  of  matter  or  manner, 
and  strikes  no  false  notes  for  the  parodists  to 
catch  at. 

The  extent  of  the  domain  of  parody  is  vastly 
larger  than  is  imagined  by  the  average  reader,  and 
its  already  published  bibliographies  show  thousands 
of  collected  parodies  of  varying  degrees  of  merit. 

Of  all  the  poets  Tennyson  has  probably  been 
parodied  the  most';  followed  closely  in  this  respect 
by  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  After  these,  Browning, 
Swinburne,  and  Walt  Whitman ;  then  Moore, 
Wordsworth,  Longfellow,  and  Thomas  Campbell. 

Of  single  poems  the  one  showing  the  greatest 
number  of  parodies  is  uMy  Mother,"  by  Ann 
Taylor ;  after  this  those  most  used  for  the  purpose 
have  been  «  The  Raven,"  Gray's  "  Elegy,"  "  The 
Song  of  the  Shirt,"  «  The  May  Queen,"  "  Locksley 
[  xxix  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Hall,"  "The    Burial    of  Sir  John   Moore,"  and 
Kingsley's  "Three  Fishers." 

Parody,  then,  is  a  tribute  to  popularity,  and  con- 
sequently to  merit  of  one  sort  or  another,  and  in 
the  hands  of  the  initiate  may  be  considered  a 
touch-stone  that  proves  true  worth. 


[  xxx 


A  PARODY  ANTHOLOGY 


Parody  Anthology 


AFTER   OMAR   KHAYYAM 


THE    GOLFER'S    RUBAIYAT 

WAKE  !  for  the  sun  has  driven  in  equal  flight 
The  stars  before  him  from  the  Tee  of  Night, 
And    holed  them    every   one  without    a 

Miss, 
Swinging  at  ease  his  gold-shod  Shaft  of  Light. 

Now,  the  fresh  Year  reviving  old  Desires, 
The  thoughtful  Soul  to  Solitude  retires, 

Pores  on  this  Club  and  That  with  anxious  eye, 
And  dreams  of  Rounds  beyond  the  Rounds  of  Liars, 

• 

Come,  choose  your  Ball,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring, 
Your  Red  Coat  and  your  wooden  Putter  fling; 

The  Club  of  Time  has  but  a  little  while 
To  waggle,  and  the  Club  is  on  the  swing. 

A  Bag  of  Clubs,  a  Silver  Town  or  two, 

A  Flask  of  Scotch,  a  Pipe  of  Shag,  and  Thou 

Beside  me  caddying  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Ah,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow. 
[  3  ] 


A    Pa,roay    Anthology 


Myself,  when  young,  did  eagerly  frequent 
Jamie  and  His,  and  heard  great  argument 

Of  Grip,  and  Stance,  and  Swing ;    but  evermore 
Found  at  the  Exit  but  a  Dollar  spent. 

With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  sought  to  make  it  grow  ; 

And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reap'd  : 
u  You  hold  it  in  this  Way,  and  you  swing  it  So." 

The  swinging  Brassie  strikes ;  and,  having  struck, 
Moves  on  ;  nor  all  your  Wit  or  future  Luck 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Stroke, 
Nor  from  the  Card  a  single  Seven  pluck. 

No  hope  by  Club  or  Ball  to  win  the  Prize ; 
The  batter'd,  blacken'd  Remade  sweetly  flies, 

Swept  cleanly  from  the  Tee ;  this  is  the  Truth 
Nine-tenths  is  Skill,  and  all  the  rest  is  Lies. 

• 

And  that  inverted  Ball  they  call  the  High, 
By  which  the  Duffer  thinks  to  live  or  die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help,  for  it 
As  impotently  froths  as  you  or  I. 

Yon  rising  Moon  that  leads  us  home  again, 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane ; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising,  wait  for  us 
At  this  same  Turning  —  and  for  One  in  vain. 
[4] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

And  when,  like  her,  my  Golfer,  I  have  been 
And  am  no  more  above  the  pleasant  Green, 

And  you  in  your  mild  Journey  pass  the  Hole 
I  made  in  One  —  ah,  pay  my  Forfeit  then  ! 

H.  W.  Boynton. 

AN   OMAR   FOR   LADIES* 

ONE  for  her  Club  and  her  own  Latch-key  fights, 
Another  wastes  in  Study  her  good  Nights. 
Ah,  take  the  Clothes  and  let  the  Culture  go, 
Nor  heed  the  grumble  of  the  Women's  Rights ! 

Look  at  the  Shop-girl  all  about  us  —  u  Lo, 
The  Wages  of  a  month,"  she  says,  "I  blow 

Into  a  Hat,  and  when  my  hair  is  waved, 
Dpubtless  my  Friend  will  take  me  to  the  Show." 

And  she  who  saved  her  coin  for  Flannels  red, 
And  she  who  caught  Pneumonia  instead, 

Will  both  be  Underground  in  Fifty  Years, 
And  Prudence  pays  no  Premium  to  the  dead. 

TV  exclusive  Style  you  set  your  heart  upon 
Gets  to  the  Bargain  counters  —  and  anon 

Like  monograms  on  a  Saleslady's  tie 
Cheers  but  a  moment  —  soon  for  you  't  is  gone. 

Think,  on  the  sad  Four  Hundred's  gilded  halls, 
Whose  endless  Leisure  ev'n  themselves  appalls, 

How  Ping-pong  raged  so  high  —  then  faded  out 
To  those  far  Suburbs  that  still  chase  its  Balls. 

*  Copyright,  1903,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

[  5  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


They  say  Sixth  Avenue  and  the  Bowery  keep 
The  dernier  cri  that  once  was  far  from  cheap ; 

Green  Veils,  one  season  chic  —  Department  stores 
Mark  down  in  vain  —  no  profit  shall  they  reap. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  lasts  so  long 
The  Style  as  when  it  starts  a  bit  too  strong ; 

That  all  the  Pompadours  the  parterre  boasts 
Some  Chorus-girl  began,  with  Dance  and  Song. 

And  this  Revival  of  the  Chignon  low 
That  fills  the  most  of  us  with  helpless  Woe, 

Ah,  criticise  it  Softly  !  for  who  knows 
What  long-necked  Peeress  had  to  wear  it  so  ! 

• 

Ah,  my  beloved,  try  each  Style  you  meet ; 
To-day  brooks  no  loose  ends,  you  must  be  neat. 

To-morrow  !  why,  to-morrow  you  may  be 
Wearing  it  down  your  back  like  Marguerite  ! 

For  some  we  once  admired,  the  Very  Best 
That  ever  a  French  hand-boned  Corset  prest, 

Wore  what  they  used  to  call  Prunella  Boots, 
And  put  on  Nightcaps  ere  they  went  to  rest. 

And  we  that  now  make  fun  of  Waterfalls 
They  wore,  and  whom  their  Crinoline  appalls, 

Ourselves  shall  from  old  dusty  Fashion  plates 
Assist  our  Children  in  their  Costume  balls. 
[6] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  wear, 
Before  we  grow  so  old  that  we  don't  care  ! 
Before  we  have  our  Hats  made  all  alike, 
Sans  Plumes,   sans  Wings,    sans    Chiffon,  and  — 
sans  Hair !    ^ 

Josephine  Daskam  Bacon. 


THE    MODERN   RUBAIYAT 

(Dob ley's  Version) 

HARK !    for    the   message    cometh    from  the 
King! 
Winter,  thy  doom  is  spoke ;  thy  dirges  ring, 
Thy  time  is  o'er — and  through  the  Palace  door 
Enter  the  Princess  !     Hail  the  new-crowned  Spring  ! 

Comes  she  all  rose-crowned,  glowing  with  the  Joy 
Of  Laughter  and  of  Cupid,  the  God-Boy  ; 

Buds  bursting  on  the  bough  in  welcoming 
To  Her  we  Love,  whose  loving  will  not  cloy  ! 

List !  from  the  organ  rippling  in  the  Street 
Come  sounds  rejoicing,  glad  Her  reign  to  greet. 

The  Shad  is  smiling  in  the  Market  Place 
And  eke  the  Little  Neck  !     Ah  —  Life  is  Sweet ! 

Come,  let  us  lilt  a  Merry  Little  Song 
And  in  an  Automobile  glide  along 

Into  the  glory  of  the  Year's  new  Birth. 
Hasten  !      Oh,  haste  !      For  this  is  Spring,  I  Think  ! 

[7] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


Come  where  the  Bonnets  bloom  within  the  Grove 
And  let  us  pluck  them  for  the  One  we  Love ; 

Violets  and  Things  and  chiffon-nested  Birds. 
Tell  me  —  didst  ever  see  a  Glass-Eyed  Dove  ? 

Think  you  how  many  Springs  will  go  and  come 
When  We  are  Dead  Ones  —  and  the  busy  Hum 

Of  life  will  never  reach  us  —  Nothing  Done 
And  Nothing  Doing  in  the  Silence  Glum ! 

Listen !  the  cable  car's  Gay  Gong  has  rang, 
The  Elevated  on  its  perch,  A-clang. 

Like  to  a  District  Messenger  astir. 
Thought  you,  it  was  a  Nightingale  that  sang  ? 

Ah  !  my  Beloved,  when  it 's  Really  Spring 
We  know  it  by  the  Buds  a-blossoming, 

Signals  from  earth  to  sky  —  Tremendous  Sounds 
That  might  to  Some  mean  any  Ancient  Thing  ! 

Then  let  us  to  the  Caravan  at  Once, 
The  Sawdust  where  the  Peanut  haunts 

The  air  with  strange  sweet  Odors 
And  the  Elephant  does  Wild  and  Woolly  Stunts  ! 

Asparagus  is  glowing  on  the  Stall, 
The  Spring  lamb  cavorts  on  the  Menu  tall ; 
Strawberries  ripe  —  a  Dollar  for  the  Box : 
Would  n't  it  jar  You  somehow,  After  all  ? 
[8] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A  Book  of  Coon  Songs  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Dozen  Buns,  and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  rag-time  ?      I  don't  know  ? 
I  wonder  would  a  dozen  be  enow  ? 

I  sent  my  soul  afling  through  Joy  and  Pain 
For  Information  that  the  Winds  might  deign . 
Softly  the  breezes  pitched  it,  Russie-curved, 
And  whispered  slowly  —  sadly  —  "  Guess  Again.' ' 

Sometimes  I  think  the  Glories  that  they  Sing 
Are  like  the  grape-vine  the  Fox  tried  to  cling; 

But  take- To-day  —  and  make  the  Most  of  It, 
I  think  it 's  Just  Too  Sweet  for  anything ! 

What     of    To-morrow  —  say     you  ?       Oh,    my 

Friend  — 
To-morrow  's  Not  been   Touched.      It 's   yet  to 

Spend. 

I  often  wonder  if  we'  should  expire 
If  we  could  but  Collect  the  Gold  we  Lend  ! 

Ah,  Love !  could  Thou  and  I  Creation  run, 
How  Different  our  Scheme!    The  Summer's  sun 

Would  see  another  Springtime  blossoming 
Another  Summer's  Rose  to  Follow  On  ! 

And  Leaning  from  the  Sky  a  Little  Star 
Would  Tell  Us  from  the  Canopy  afar 

What  now  we  Grope  for  in  the  Dinky-dink, 
And  wonder  blindly,  vaguely,  What  we  Are  ! 
[9] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  when  Alone  you  dream  your  fancies  ripe, 
Thyself  all  Hasheesh-fed  —  My  Prototype  ! 

Smoke    Up  —  and    when    you  gather   with    the 

Group 

Where  I  made  One  —  Turn  Down  an  Empty  Pipe  ! 

Kate  Master s on. 


LINES  WRITTEN  (« BY  REQUEST  ") 
FOR  A  DINNER  OF  THE  OMAR 
KHAYYAM  CLUB 

MASTER,  in  memory  of  that  Verse  of  Thine, 
And  of  Thy  rather  pretty  taste  in  Wine, 
We  gather  at  this  jaded  Century's  end, 
Our  Cheeks,  if  so  we  may,  to  incarnadine. 

Thou  hast  the  kind  of  Halo  which  outstays 
Most  other  Genii's.     Though  a  Laureate's  bays 

Should  slowly  crumple  up,  Thou  livest  on, 
Having  survived  a  certain  Paraphrase. 

The  Lion  and  the  Alligator  squat 
In  Dervish  Courts  —  the  Weather  being  hot- — 
Under  Umbrellas.      Where  is  Mahmud  now? 
Plucked  by  the  Kitchener  and  gone  to  Pot ! 

Not  so  with  thee ;  but  in  Thy  place  of  Rest, 
Where  East  is  East  and  never  can  be  West, 

Thou  art  the  enduring  Theme  of  dining  Bards ; 
O  make  allowances ;  they  do  their  Best. 

[  10] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Our  Health  —  Thy  Prophet's  health  —  is  but  so-so ; 
Much  marred  by  men  of  Abstinence  who  know 

Of  Thee  and  all  Thy  loving  Tavern-lore 
Nothing,  nor  care  for  it  one  paltry  Blow. 

Yea,  we  ourselves,  who  beam  around  Thy  Bowl, 
Somewhat  to  dull  Convention  bow  the  Soul, 

We  sit  in  sable  Trouserings  and  Boots, 
Nor  do  the  Vine-leaves  deck  a  single  Poll. 

How  could  they  bloom  in  uncongenial  air  ? 

Nor,  though   they  bloomed  profusely,  should   we 

wear 

Upon  our  Heads  —  so  tight  is  Habit's  hold  — 
Aught  else  beside  our  own  unaided  Hair. 

The  Epoch  curbs  our  Fancy.     What  is  more 
To  BE,  in  any  case,  is  now  a  Bore. 

Even  in  Humor  there  is  nothing  new; 
There  is  no  Joke  that  was  not  made  before. 

But  Thou  !  with  what  a  fresh  and  poignant  sting 
Thy  Muse  remarked  that  Time  was  on  the  Wing  ! 

Ah,  Golden  Age,  when  Virgin  was  the  Soil, 
And  Decadence  was  deemed  a  newish  Thing. 

These  picturesque  departures  now  are  stale ; 
The  noblest  Vices  have  their  vogue  and  fail ; 

Through  some  inherent  Taint  or  lack  of  Nerve 
We  cease  to  sin  upon  a  generous  scale. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


This  hour,  though  drinking  at  my  Host's  expense, 
I  fear  to  use  a  fine  Incontinence, 

For  terror  of  the  Law  and  him  that  waits 
Outside,  the  unknown  X,  to  hale  us  hence. 

For,  should  he  make  of  us  an  ill  Report 
As  pipkins  of  the  more  loquacious  Sort, 

We    might   be  lodged,  the  Lord    alone  knows 

where, 
Save  Peace  were  purchased  with  a  pewter  Quart. 

And  yet,  O  Lover  of  the  purple  Vine, 
Haply  Thy  Ghost  is  watching  how  we  dine ; 

Ah,  let  the  Whither  go ;  we  '11  take  our  chance 
Of  fourteen  days  with  option  of  a  Fine. 

Master,  if  we,  Thy  Vessels,  staunch  and  stout, 
Should  stagger,  half-seas-over,  blind  with  Doubt, 

In  sound  of  that  dread  moaning  of  the  Bar, 
Be  near,  be  very  near,  to  bail  us  out ! 

Owen  Seaman. 


THE    BABY'S   OMAR 

OMAR  'S  the  fad  !     Well  then,  let  us  indite 
The  shape  of  verse  old  Omar  used  to  write; 
And  Juveniles  are  up.     So  we  opine 
A  Baby's  Omar  would  be  out  of  sight ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Methinks  the  stunt  is  easy.     Stilted  style, 
A  misplaced  Capital  once  in  a  while,  — 
Other  verse  writers  do  it  like  a  shot ; 
And  can't  I  do  it  too  ?     Well,  I  should  Smile  ! 

But  how  I  ramble  on.     I  must  dismiss 
Dull  Sloth,  and  set  to  Work  at  once,  I  wis  ; 
I  sometimes  think  there's  nothing  quite 

so  hard 
As  a  Beginning.     Say  we  start  like  this: 

[ndeed,  indeed  my  apron  oft  before 

[  tore,  but  was  I  naughty  when  I  tore  ? 

And  then,  and  then  came  Ma,  and  thread  in  hand 
Repaired  the  rent  in  my  small  pinafore. 

A  Penny  Trumpet  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Drum  that's  big  enough  to  make  a  Row; 

A  Toy  Fire-Engine,  and  a  squeaking  Doll, 
Oh,  Life  were  Pandemonium  enow. 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  then  quickly  on  the  floor 
Your  portion  of  the  Porridge  gaily  pour. 
The  Nurse  will  Spank  you,  and  she  '11  be 

discharged,  — 
Ah,  but  of  Nurses  there  be  Plenty  more. 

Yes,  I  can  do  it !     Now,  if  but  my  Purse 
Some  kindly  Editor  will  reimburse, 

I  '11  write  a  Baby's  Omar  ;  for  I  'm  sure 
These  Sample  Stanzas  here  are  not  so 
worse. 

Carolyn  Wells. 
t'3] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   CHAUCER 


YE   CLERKE   OF   YE  WETHERE 

ACLERKE  ther  was,  a  puissant  wight  was 
hee, 
Who  of  ye  wethere  hadde  ye  maisterie ; 
Alway  it  was  his  mirthe  and  his  solace  — 
To  put  eche  seson's  wethere  oute  of  place. 

Whanne  that  Aprille  shoures  wer  our  desyre, 
He  gad  us  Julye  sonnes  as  hotte  as  fyre ; 
But  sith  ye  summere  togges  we  donned  agayne, 
Eftsoons  ye  wethere  chaunged  to  cold  and  rayne. 

Wo  was  that  pilgrimme  who  fared  forth  a-foote, 
Without  ane  gyngham  that  him  list  uppe-putte; 
And  gif  no  mackyntosches  eke  had  hee, 
A  parlous  state  that  wight  befelle  —  pardie ! 

We  wist  not  gif  it  nexte  ben  colde  or  hotte, 
Cogswounds !  ye  barde  a  grewsome  colde  hath  gotte  ! 
Certes,  that  clerke  's  ane  mightie  man  withalle, 
Let  non  don  him  offence,  lest  ille  befalle. 

Anonymous. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  SPENSER 


A   PORTRAIT 

HE  is  to  weet  a  melancholy  carle : 
Thin  in  the  waist,  with  bushy  head  of  hair, 
As  hath  the  seeded  thistle,  when  a  parle 
It  holds  with  Zephyr,  ere  it  sendeth  fair 
Its  light  balloons  into  the  summer  air; 
Thereto  his  beard  had  not  begun  to  bloom. 
No  brush  had  touched  his  cheek,  or  razor  sheer; 
No  care  had  touched  his  cheek  with  mortal  doom, 
But  new  he  was  and  bright,  as  scarf  from  Persian 
loom. 

Ne  cared  he  for  wine,  or  half  and  half; 

Ne  cared  he  for  fish,  or  flesh,  or  fowl; 

And  sauces  held  he  worthless  as  the  chaff; 

He  'sdeigned  the  swine-head  at  the  wassail-bowl : 

Ne  with  lewd  ribbalds  sat  he  cheek  by  jowl ; 

Ne  with  sly  lemans  in  the  scorner's  chair  5 

But  after  water-brooks  this  pilgrim's  soul 

Panted  and  all  his  food  was  woodland  air; 

Though  he  would  oft-times  feast  on  gilliflowers  rare 

The  slang  of  cities  in  no  wise  he  knew, 
Tipping  the  wink  to  him  was  heathen  Greek ; 
He  sipped  no  "  olden  Tom,"  or  "  ruin  blue," 
Or  Nantz,  or  cherry-brandy,  drunk  full  meek 
[  >5  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


By  many  a  damsel  brave  and  rouge  of  cheek  ; 
Nor  did  he  know  each  aged  watch  man's  beat, 
Nor  in  obscured  purlieus  would  he  seek 
For  curled  Jewesses,  with  ankles  neat, 
Who,  as  they  walk  abroad,  make  tinkling  with  their 
feet. 

John  Keats. 


[16] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   SHAKESPEARE 


THE    BACHELOR'S   SOLILOQUY 

TO  wed,  or  not  to  wed  ?     That  is  the  question 
Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  -pangs  and  arrows  of  outrageous  love 
Or  to  take  arms  against  the  powerful  flame 
And  by  oppressing  quench  it. 

To  wed  —  to  marry  — 
And  by  a  marriage  say  we  end 
The  heartache  and  the  thousand  painful  shocks 
Love  makes  us  heir  to  —  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished  !  to  wed  —  to  marry  — 
E^cghance  a  scold  !  aye,  there  's  the  rub  !  _^/ 
For  in  that  wedded  life  what  ills  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  our  single  state 
Must  give  us  serious  pause.     There  's  the  respect 
That  makes  us  Bachelors  a  numerous  race. 
For  who  would  bear  the  dull  unsocial  hours 
Spent  by  unmarried  men,  cheered  by  no  smile 
To  sit  like  hermit  at  a  lonely  board 
In  silence  ?     Who  would  bear  the  cruel  gibes 
With  which  the  Bachelor  is  daily  teased 
When  he  himself  might  end  such  heart-felt  griefs 
By  wedding  some  fair  maid  ?     Oh,  who  would  live 
Yawning  and  staring  sadly  in  the  fire 
Till  celibacy  becomes  a  weary  life 
[^  ['7] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  wed-lock 
(That  undiscovered  state  from  whose  strong  chains 
No  captive  can  get  free)  puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  choose  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  which  a  wife  may  bring. 
Thus  caution  doth  make  Bachelors  of  us  all, 
And  thus  our  natural  taste  for  matrimony 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought. 
And  love  adventures  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  away 
And  lose  the  name  of  Wedlock. 


POKER 
O  draw,  or  not  to  draw,  —  that  is  the  ques- 


tion :  — 

Whether  't  is  safer  in  the  player  to  take 
The  awful  risk  of  skinning  for  a  straight, 
Or,  standing  pat,  to  raise  'em  all  the  limit 
And  thus,  by  bluffing,  get  in.      To  draw,  —  to  skin  ; 
No  more  —  and  by  that  skin  to  get  a  full, 
Or  two  pairs,  or  the  fattest  bouncing  kings 
That  luck  is  heir  to  —  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  draw  —  to  skin  ; 
To  skin  !  perchance  to  burst  —  ay,  there  's  the  rub  ! 
For  in  the  draw  of  three  what  cards  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  th'  uncertain  pack, 
Must  give  us  pause.      There  's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  a  bobtail  flush  ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  overwhelming  blind, 

r  '8  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  reckless  straddle,  the  wait  on  the  edge, 
The  insolence  of  pat  hands  and  the  lifts 
That  patient  merit  of  the  bluffer  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  be  much  better  off 
By  simply  passing  ?     Who  would  trays  uphold, 
And  go  out  on  a'  small  progressive  raise, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  call  — 
The  undiscovered  ace-full,  to  whose  strength 
Such  hands  must  bow,  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  keep  the  chips  we  have 
Than  be  curious  about  the  hands  we  know  not  of. 
Thus  bluffing  does  make  cowards  of  us  all: 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  a  four-heart  flush 
Is  sicklied  with  some  dark  and  cussed  club, 
And  speculators  in  a  jack-pot's  wealth 
With  this  regard  their  interest  turn  away 
And  lose  the  right  to  open. 

Anonymous. 


TOOTHACHE 

TO  have  it  out  or  not.  That  is  the  question-^ 
Whether  't  is  better  for  the  jaws  to  suffer 
The  pangs  and  torments  of  an  aching  tooth 
Or  to  take  steel  against  a  host  of  troubles, 
And,  by  extracting  them,  end  them  ?     To  pull  — 

to  tug  !  — 

No  more  :  and  by  a  tug  to  say  we  end 
The  toothache  and  a  thousand  natural  ills 
The  jaw  is  heir  to.     'T  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished  !      To  pull  —  to  tug  !  — 
[  '9] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


To  tug  —  perchance  to  break  !     Ay,  there  's  the  rub, 

For  in  that  wrench  what  agonies  may  come 

When  we  have  half  dislodged  the  stubborn  foe, 

Must  give  us  pause.      There's  the  respect 

That  makes  an  aching  tooth  of  so  long  life. 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  stings  of  pain, 

The  old  wife's  nostrum,  dentist's  contumely ; 

The  pangs  of  hope  deferred,  kind  sleep's  delay; 

The  insolence  of  pity,  and  the  spurns, 

That  patient  sickness  of  the  healthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

For  one  poor  shilling  ?      Who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  groan  and  sink  beneath  a  load  of  pain  ?  — 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  lodged  within 

The  linen-twisted  forceps,  from  whose  pangs 

No  jaw  at  ease  returns,  puzzles  the  will, 

And  makes  it  rather  bear  the  ills  it  has 

Than  fly  to  others  that  it  knows  not  of. 

Thus  dentists  do  make  cowards  of  us  all, 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  fear  ; 

And  many  a  one,  whose  courage  seeks  the  door, 

With  this  regard  his  footsteps  turns  away, 

Scared  at  the  name  of  dentist. 

Anonymous^ 


A   DREARY    SONG 

ELL,  don't  cry,  my  little  tiny  boy, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain 
Amuse  yourself,  and  break  some  toy, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


W 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Alas,  for  the  grass  on  Papa's  estate, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

He  Ml  have  to  buy  hay  at  an  awful  rate, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

Mamma,  she  can't  go  out  for  a  drive, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

How  cross  she  gets  about  four  or  five, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

If  I  were  you  I  'd  be  off  to  bed, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Or  the  damp  will  give  you  a  cold  in  the  head, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  this  song  was  done, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

And  I,  for  one,  cannot  see  it's  fun, 

But  the  Dyces  and  the  Colliers  can  —  they  say. 

Shirley  Brooks. 


TO  THE   STALL-HOLDERS    AT    A 
FANCY   FAIR 

WITH    pretty    speech    accost  both  old   and 
young, 
And  speak  it  trippingly  upon  the  tongue; 
Rut  if  you  mouth  it  with  a  hoyden  laugh, 
With  clumsy  ogling  and  uncomely  chaff  — 
As  I  have  oft  seen  done  at  fancy  fairs, 
I  had  as  lief  a  huckster  sold  my  wares, 

' 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Avoid  all  so-called  beautifying,  dear. 

Oh  !  it  offends  me  to  the  soul  to  hear 

The  things  that  men  among  themselves  will  say 

Of  some  soi-disant  "  beauty  of  the  day," 

Whose  face,  when  she  with  cosmetics  has  cloyed  it, 

Out-Rachels  Rachel !  pray  you,  girls,  avoid  it. 

Neither  be  you  too  tame  —  but,  ere  you  go, 

Provide  yourselves  with  sprigs  of  mistletoe ; 

Offer  them  coyly  to  the  Roman  herd  — 

But  don't  you  suit  u  the  action  to  the  word," 

For  in  that  very  torrent  of  your  passion 

Remember  modesty  is  still  in  fashion. 

Oh,  there  be  ladies  whom  I  've  seen  hold  stalls  — 

Ladies  of  rank,  my  dear  —  to  whom  befalls 

Neither  the  accent  nor  the  gait  of  ladies ; 

So  clumsily  made  up  with  Bloom  of  Cadiz, 

Powder-rouge  —  lip-salve  —  that  I  've  fancied  then 

They  were  the  work  of  Nature's  journeymen. 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


SONG 

WITH  a  hey  !  and  a  hi  !  and  a  hey-ho  rhyme  ! 
Oh,  the  shepherd  lad 
He  is  ne'er  so  glad 
As  when  he  pipes,  in  the  blossom-time, 

So  rare  ! 
While  Kate  picks  by,  yet  looks  not  there. 

So  rare  !  so  rare  ! 
With  a  hey  !  and  a  hi !  and  a  ho  ! 
The  grasses  curdle  where  the  daisies  blow ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


With  a  hey  !  and  a  hi  !  and  a  hey-ho  vow  ! 

Then  he  si%ps  her  face 

At  the  sweetest  place  — 
And  ho  !  how  white  is  the  hawthorn  now  !  — 

So  rare  !  — 
And  the  daisied  world  rocks  round  them  there. 

So  rare  !  so  rare  ! 

With  a  hey  !  and  a  hi !  and  a  ho  ! 
The  grasses  curdle  where  the  daisies  blow ! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


THE   WHIST-PLAYER'S   SOLILOQUY 

TO  trump,  or  not  to  trump$  —  that  is  the  ques- 
tion : 
Whether  't  is  better  in  this  case  to  notice 
The  leads  and  signals  of  outraged  opponents, 
Or  to  force  trumps  against  a  suit  of-  diamonds, 
And   by    opposing    end  them  ?     To  trump,  —  to 

take,  — 

No  more ;  and  by  that  trick  to  win  the  lead 
And  after  that,  return  my  partner's  spades 
For  which  he  signalled,  —  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  trump  —  to  take,  — 
To  take  !   perchance  to  win  !    Ay,  there  's  the  rub  ; 
For  if  we  win  this  game,  what  hands  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  up  these  cards  again. 
Play  to  the  score  ?  ah  !  yes,  there  's  the  defect 
That  makes    this  Duplicate  Whist  so  much  like 

work. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


For  who  would  heed  the  theories  of  Hoyle, 
The  laws  of  Pole,  the  books  of  Cavendish, 
The  Short-Suit  system,  Leads  American, 
The  Eleven  Rule  Finesse,  The  Fourth-best  play, 
The  Influence  of  signals  on  The  Ruff, 
When  he  himself  this  doubtful  trick  might  take 
With  a  small  two-spot  ?      Who  would  hesitate, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  afterwards, 
An  undiscovered  discard  or  forced  lead 
When  playing  the  return,  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  lose  the  tricks  we  have 
To  win  the  others  that  we  know  not  of? 
Thus  Duplicate  Whist  makes  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  Bumblepuppy 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought. 
And  good   whist-players  of  great  skill  and  judg- 
ment, 

With  this  regard  their  formulas  defy, 
And  lose  the  game  by  ruffing. 

Carolyn  Wells. 


04] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WITHER 

ANSWER  TO  MASTER  WITHER'S  SONG, 
"SHALL  I,  WASTING  IN  DESPAIR?" 

OH  ALL  I,  mine  affections  slack, 

^S  'Cause  I  see  a  woman's  black? 

^^^   Or  myself,  with  care  cast  down, 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  brown  ? 

Be  she  blacker  than  the  night, 

Or  the  blackest  jet  in  sight ! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  black  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  burst, 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  's  curst  ? 

Or  a  thwarting  hoggish  nature 

Joined  in  as  bad  a  feature  ? 

Be  she  curst  or  fiercer  than 

Brutish  beast,  or  savage  man  ! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  curst  she  be  ? 

Shall  a  woman's  vices  make 
Me  her  vices  quite  forsake  ? 
Or  her  faults  to  me  made  known, 
Make  me  think  that  I  have  none  ? 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Be  she  of  the  most  accurst, 
And  deserve  the  name  of  worst ! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  bad  she  be  ? 

'Cause  her  fortunes  seem  too  low, 

Shall  I  therefore  let  her  go  ? 

He  that  bears  an  humble  mind 

And  with  riches  can  be  kind, 

Think  how  kind  a  heart  he  'd  have, 

If  he  were  some  servile  slave  ! 
And  if  that  same  mind  I  see 
What  care  I  how  poor  she  be  ? 

Poor,  or  bad,  or  curst,  or  black, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  be  slack  ! 
If  she  hate  me  (then  believe !) 
She  shall  die  ere  I  will  grieve! 
If  she  like  me  when  I  woo 
I  can  like  and  love  her  too  ! 

If  that  she  be  fit  for  me  ! 

What  care  I  what  others  be  ? 

Ben  Jon  son 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER  HERRICK 


SONG 

ATHER  Kittens  while  you  may, 

Time  brings  only  Sorrow  ; 
And  the  Kittens  of  To-day 
Will  be  Old  Cats  To-morrow. 

Oliver  Herford. 


TO   JULIA   UNDER   LOCK   AND   KEY 

(A  form  of  betrothal  gift  in  America  is  an  anklet 
secured  by  a  padlock,  of  which  the  other  party 
keeps  the 


WHEN  like  a  bud  my  Julia  blows 
In  lattice-work  of  silken  hose, 
Pleasant  I  deem  it  is  to  note 
How,  'neath  the  nimble  petticoat, 
Above  her  fairy  shoe  is  set 
The  circumvolving  zonulet. 
And  soothly  for  the  lover's  ear 
A  perfect  bliss  it  is  to  hear 
About  her  limb  so  lithe  and  lank 
My  Julia's  ankle-bangle  clank. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Not  rudely  tight,  for  't  were  a  sin 
To  corrugate  her  dainty  skin ; 
Nor  yet  so  large  that  it  might  fare 
Over  her  foot  at  unaware ; 
But  fashioned  nicely  with  a  view 
To  let  her  airy  stocking  through : 
So  as,  when  Julia  goes  to  bed, 
Of  all  her  gear  disburdened, 
This  ring  at  least  she  shall  not  doff 
Because  she  cannot  take  it  off. 
And  since  thereof  I  hold  the  key, 
She  may  not  taste  of  liberty, 
Not  though  she  suffer  from  the  gout, 
Unless  I  choose  to  let  her  out. 

Owen 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  NURSERY  RHYMES 


AN  IDYLL  OF  PHATTE  AND  LEENE 

THE  hale  John  Sprat  —  oft  called  for  shortness, 
Jack  — 
Had  married —  had,  in  fact,  a  wife — and  she 
Did  worship  him  with  wifely  reverence. 
He,  who  had  loved  her  when  she  was  a  girl, 
Compass'd  her,  too,  with  sweet  observances ; 
E'en  at  the  dinner  table  did  it  shine. 
For  he  —  liking  no  fat  himself — he  never  did, 
With  jealous  care  piled  up  her  plate  with  lean, 
Not  knowing  that  all  lean  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell  him  o  't, 
And  watched  the  fat  go  out  with  envious  eye, 
But  could  not  speak  for  bashful  delicacy. 

At  last  it  chanced  that  on  a  winter  day, 
The  beef —  a  prize  joint !  —  little  was  but  fat ; 
So  fat,  that  John  had  all  his  work  cut  out, 
To  snip  out  lean  fragments  for  his  wife, 
Leaving,  in  very  sooth,  none  for  himself; 
Which  seeing,  she  spoke  courage  to  her  soul, 
Took  up  her  fork,  and,  pointing  to  the  joint 
Where  't  was  the  fattest,  piteously  she  said ; 
u  Oh,  husband  !   full  of  love  and  tenderness  ! 
What  is  the  cause  that  you  so  jealously 


A     Parody     Anthology 


Pick  out  the  lean  for  me.      I  like  it  not ! 

Nay,  loathe  it — 'tis  on  the  fat  that  I  would  feast; 

O  me,  I  fear  you  do  not  like  my  taste  !  " 

Then  he,  dropping  his  horny-handled  carving  knife, 
Sprinkling  therewith  the  gravy  o'er  her  gown, 
Answer'd,  amazed:  "What!  you  like  fat,  my  wife! 
And  never  told  me.      Oh,  this  is  not  kind! 
Think  what  your  reticence  has  wrought  for  us ; 
How  all  the  fat  sent  down  unto  the  maid  — 
Who  likes  not  fat  —  for  such  maids  never  do  — 
Has  been  put  in  the  waste-tub,  sold  for  grease, 
And  pocketed  as  servant's  perquisite  ! 
Oh,  wife !  this  news  is  good  ;   for  since,  perforce, 
A  joint  must  be  not  fat  nor  lean,  but  both ; 
Our  different  tastes  will  serve  our  purpose  well; 
For,  while  you  eat  the  fat  —  the  lean  to  me 
Falls  as  my  cherished  portion.     Lo  !   't  is  good  !  " 
So  henceforth  — he  that  tells  the  tale  relates  — 
In   John  Sprat's   household    waste   was   quite    un- 
known ; 

For  he  the  lean  did  eat,  and  she  the  fat, 
And  thus  the  dinner-platter  was  all  cleared. 

Anonymous. 


NURSERY   SONG   IN   PIDGIN  ENGLISH 


a  songee  sick  a  pence, 
Pockee  muchee  lye  ; 
ozen  two  time  blackee  bird 
Cookee  in  e  pie. 

[  30]  . 


A    Parody    Anthology 


When  him  cutee  topside 

Birdee  bobbery  sing ; 
Himee  tinkee  nicey  dish 

Setee  force  King ! 
Kingee  in  a  taikee  loom 

Countee  muchee  money ; 
Queeny  in  e  kitchee, 

Chew-chee  breadee  honey. 
Servant  galo  shakee, 

Hangee  washee  clothes ; 
Cho-chop  comee  blackie  bird, 

Nipee  off  her  nose  ! 

Anonymous. 


THE    HOUSE   THAT   JACK    BUILT 

\    ND  this  reft  house  is  that  the  which  he  built, 

/-\     Lamented  Jack  !   and  here  his  malt  he  piled. 

x         Cautious  in  vain  !  these  rats  that  squeak  so 

wild, 

Squeak  not  unconscious  of  their  father's  guilt. 
Did  he  not  see  her  gleaming  through  the  glade  ! 
Belike  't  was  she,  the  maiden  all  forlorn. 
What  though  she  milked  no  cow  with  crumpled 

horn, 

Yet,  aye  she  haunts  the  dale  where  erst  she  strayed  :  • 
And  aye  before  her  stalks  her  amorous  knight ! 
Still  on  his  thighs  their  wonted  brogues  are  worn, 
And  through  those  brogues,  still  tattered  and  betorn, 
His  hindward  charms  gleam  an  unearthly  white. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

[  31  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


BOSTON  NURSERY  RHYMES 


RHYME  FOR  A  GEOLOGICAL   BABY 

TRILOBITE,  Graptolite,  Nautilus  pie  ; 
Seas  were  calcareous,  oceans  were  dry, 
Eocene,  miocene,  pliocene  Tuff, 
Lias  and  Trias  and  that  is  enough. 


RHYME    FOR     ASTRONOMICAL    BABY 

BYE  Baby  Bunting, 
Father  's  gone  star-hunting  ; 
Mother  's  at  the  telescope 
Casting  baby's  horoscope. 
Bye  Baby  Buntoid, 
Father  's  found  an  asteroid  ; 
Mother  takes  by  calculation 
The  angle  of  its  inclination. 


RHYME    FOR    BOTANICAL    BABY 

T    ITTLE  bo-peepals 

Has  lost  her  sepals, 

~f  And  can't  tell  where  to  find  them ; 
In  the  involucre 
By  hook  or  by  crook  or 
She  '11  make  up  her  mind    .ot  to  mind  them. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


RHYME   FOR   A    CHEMICAL    BABY 

OH,  sing  a  song  of  phosphates, 
Fibrine  in  a  line, 
Four-and-twenty  follicles 
In  the  van  of  time. 

When  the  phosphorescence 

Evoluted  brain, 
Superstition  ended, 

Men  began  to  reign. 

Rev.  Joseph  Cook. 


A   SONG    OF   A    HEART 

UPON  a  time  I  had  a  Heart, 
And  it  was  bright  and  gay ; 
'And  I  gave  it  to  a  Lady  fair 
To  have  and  keep  alway. 

She  soothed  it  and  she  smoothed  it 
And  she  stabbed  it  till  it  bled  ; 
She  brightened  it  and  lightened  it 
And  she  weighed  it  down  with  lead. 

She  flattered  it  and  battered  it 
And  she  filled  it  full  of  gall; 
Yet  had  I  Twenty  Hundred  Heats, 
Still  should  she  have  them  all. 

Oliver  Herford. 
[3]  [33] 


A    Parody    'Anthology 


THE   DOMICILE   OF   JOHN 

BEHOLD  the  mansion  reared  by  Daedal  Jack  ! 
See  the  malt  stored  in  many  a  plethoric  sack, 
In  the  proud  cirque  of  Ivan's  Bivouac  ! 

Mark  how  the  rat's  felonious  fangs  invade 
The  golden  stores  in  John's  pavilion  laid  ! 

Anon,  with  velvet  foot  and  Tarquin  strides, 
Subtle  Grimalkin  to  his  quarry  glides ; 

Grimalkin  grim,  that  slew  the  fierce  rodent, 

Whose  tooth  insidious  Johann's  sackcloth  rent ! 

Lo !  Now  the  deep-mouthed  canine  foe's  assault  ! 

That  vexed  the  avenger  of  the  stolen  malt, 
Stored  in  the  hallowed  precincts  of  that  hall, 

That  rose  complete  at  Jack's  creative  call. 

Here  stalks  the  impetuous  cow  with  the  crumpled 

horn, 

Whereon  the  exacerbating  hound  was  torn 
Who  bayed  the  feline  slaughter-beast  that  slew 
The    rat    predaceous,    whose    keen    fangs    ran 

through 

The  textile  fibres  that  involved  the  grain 
That  lay  in  Hans'  inviolate  domain. 

Here  walks  forlorn  the  damsel  crowned  with  rue, 
Lactiferous  spoils  from  vaccine  dugs  who  drew 

Of  that  corniculate  beast  whose  tortuous  horn 
Tossed  to  the  clouds,  in  fierce  vindictive  scorn, 
[  34] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


The  baying  hound  whose  braggart  bark  and  stir 
Arched  the  lithe  spine  and   reared  the  indignant 
fur 

Of  puss,  that,  with  verminicidal  claw, 

Struck  the  weird  rat,  in  whose  insatiate  maw 

Lay  reeking  malt,  that  erst  in  Juan's  courts  we  saw 

Robed  in  senescent  garb,  that  seems,  in  sooth, 

Too  long  a  prey  to  Chronos'  iron  tooth, 
Behold  the  man  whose  amorous  lips  incline 

Full  with  young  Eros'  osculative  sign, 
To  the  lorn  maiden  whose  lactalbic  hands 

Drew  albulactic  wealth  from  lacteal  glands 
Of  that  immortal  bovine,  by  whose  horn 

Distort,  to  realms  ethereal  was  borne 
The  beast  catulean,  vexer  of  that  sly 

Ulysses  quadrupedal,  who  made  die 
The  old  mordaceous  rat  that  dared  devour 

Antecedaneous  ale  in  John's  domestic  bower. 

Lo  !   Here,  with  hirsute  honors  doffed,  succinct 

Of  saponaceous  locks,  the  priest  who  linked 
In  Hymen's  golden  bands  the  man  unthrift 

Whose  means  exiguous  stared  from  many  a  rift, 
E'en  as  he  kissed  the  virgin  all  forlorn 

Who  milked  the  cow  with  implicated  horn, 
Who  in  fierce  wrath  the  canine  torturer  skied, 

That  dared  to  vex  the  insidious  muricide, 
Who  let  auroral  effluence  through  the  pelt 

Of  that  sly  rat  that  robbed  the   palace  that  Jack 
built. 

[35] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  loud  cantankerous  Shanghai  comes  at  last. 

Whose  shouts  aroused  the  shorn  ecclesiast, 
Who  sealed  the  vows  of  Hymen's  sacrament 

To  him  who,  robed  in  garments  indigent, 
Exosculates  the  damsel  lachrymose, 

The  emulgator  of  the  horned  brute  morose 
That  on  gyrated  horn,  to  heaven's  high  vault 

Hurled  up,  with  many  a  tortuous  somersault, 
The  low  bone-cruncher,  whose  hot  wrath  pursued 

The  scratching  sneak,  that  waged  eternal  feud 
With  long-tailed  burglar,  who  his  lips  would  smack 

On   farinaceous   wealth,  that    filled   the  halls  oi 
Jack. 

Vast  limbed  and  broad  the  farmer  comes  at  length. 

Whose  cereal  care  supplied  the  vital  strength 
Of  chanticleer,  whose  matutinal  cry 

Roused  the  quiescent  form  and  ope'd  the  eye 
Of  razor-loving  cleric,  who  in  bands 

Connubial  linked  the  intermixed  hands 
Of  him,  whose  rent  apparel  gaped  apart, 

And  the  lorn  maiden  with  lugubrious  heart, 
Her  who  extraught  the  exuberant  lactic  flow 

Of  nutriment  from  that  cornigerent  cow, 
Eumer.idal  executor  of  fate, 

That  to  sidereal  altitudes  elate 
Cerberus,  who  erst  with  fang  lethiferous 

Left  lacerate  Grimalkin  latebrose  — 
That  killed  the  rat 

That  ate  the  malt 

That  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

A.  Pope. 
[  36] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


MARY   AND    THE    LAMB 

MARYT  —  what  melodies  mingle 
To  murmur  her  musical  name  ! 
It  makes  all  one's  finger-tips  tingle 
Like  fagots,  the  food  of  the  flame; 
About  her  an  ancient  tradition 
A  romance  delightfully  deep 
Has  woven  in  juxtaposition 
With  one  little  sheep,  — 


One  dear  little  lamb  that  would  follow 

Her  footsteps,  un wearily  fain. 
Down  dale,  over  hill,  over  hollow, 

To  school  and  to  hamlet  again ; 
A  gentle  companion,  whose  beauty 

Consisted  in  snow-driven  fleece, 
And  whose  most  imperative  duty 

Was  keeping  the  peace. 

His  eyes  were  as  beads  made  of  glassware, 

His  lips  were  coquettishly  curled, 
His  capers  made  many  a  lass  swear 

His  caper-sauce  baffled  the  world  ; 
His  tail  had  a  wag  when  it  relished 

A  sip  of  the  milk  in  the  pail, — 
And  this  fact  has  largely  embellished 

The  wag  of  this  tale. 
[  37  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


One  calm  summer  day  when  the  sun  was 

A  great  golden  globe  in  the  sky, 
One  mild  summer  morn  when  the  fun  was 

Unspeakably  clear  in  his  eye, 
He  tagged  after  exquisite  Mary, 

And  over  the  threshold  of  school 
He  tripped  in  a  temper  contrary, 

And  splintered  the  rule. 

A  great  consternation  was  kindled 

Among  all  the  scholars,  and  some 
Confessed  their  affection  had  dwindled 

For  lamby,  and  looked  rather  glum  ; 
But  Mary's  schoolmistress  quick  beckoned 

The  children  away  from  the  jam, 
And  said,  sotto  voce,  she  reckoned 

That  Mame  loved  the  lamb. 

Then  all  up  the  spine  of  the  rafter 

There  ran  a  most  risible  shock, 
And  sorrow  was  sweetened  with  laughter 

At  this  little  lamb  of  the  flock  ; 
And  out  spoke  the  schoolmistress  Yankee, 

With  rather  a  New  Hampshire  whine, 
"  Dear  pupils,  sing  Moody  and  Sankey, 

Hymn  c  Ninety  and  Nine.'  ' 

Now  after  this  music  had  finished, 
And  silence  again  was  restored, 

The  ardor  of  lamby  diminished, 

His  quips  for  a  moment  were  floored 

[  38] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Then  cried  he,  "  Bah-ed  children,  you  blundered 
When  singing  that  psalmistry,  quite. 

I  'm  labelled  by  Mary,  <  Old  Hundred/ 
And  I  'm  labelled  right." 

Then  vanished  the  lambkin  in  glory, 

A  halo  of  books  round  his  head  : 
What  furthermore  happened  the  story, 

Alackaday  !  cannot  be  said. 
And  Mary,  the  musical  maid,  is 

To-day  but  a  shadow  in  time ; 
Her  epitaph,  too,  I  'm  afraid  is 

Writ  only  in  rhyme. 

She  's  sung  by  the  cook  at  her  ladle 

That  stirs  up  the  capering  sauce ; 
She  's  sung  by  the  nurse  at  the  cradle 

When  ba-ba  is  restless  and  cross ; 
And  lamby,  whose  virtues  were  legion, 

Dwells  ever  in  songs  that  we  sing, 
He  makes  a  nice  dish  in  this  region 

To  eat  in  the  spring! 

Prank  Dempster  Sherman. 


[39] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WALLER 


THE   AESTHETE   TO   THE   ROSE 

GO,  flaunting  Rose  !    . 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  love  on  thee, 
That  she  nought  knows 
Of  the  New  Cult,  Intensity, 
If  sweet  and  fair  to  her  you  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young, 
Or  who  in  health  and  bloom  takes  pride, 

That  bards  have  sung 
Of  a  new  youth  —  at  whose  sad  side 
Sickness  and  pallor  aye  abide. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  Beauty  in  crude  charms  attired. 

She  must  shun  mirth, 
Have  suffered,  fruitlessly  desired, 
And  wear  no  flush  by  hope  inspired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
May  learn  that  Death  is  passing  fair; 

May  read  in  thee 

How  little  of  Art's  praise  they  share, 
Who  are  not  sallow,  sick,  and  spare  ! 

Punch. 
\  40  1 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER   DRYDEN 


THREE   BLESSINGS 

r  I  AHREE  brightest  blessings  of  this  thirsty  race, 
(Whence  sprung  and  when  I  don't  propose 

to  trace) ; 

Pale  brandy,  potent  spirit  of  the  night, 
Brisk  soda,  welcome  when  the  morn  is  bright  j 
To  make  the  third,  combine  the  other  two, 
The  force  of  nature  can  no  further  go. 

Anonymous* 


OYSTER-CRABS 

THREE    viands    in    three     different    courses 
served, 
Received  the  commendation  they  deserved. 
The  first  in  succulence  all  else  surpassed  ; 
The  next  in  flavor ;  and  in  both,  the  last. 
For  Nature's  forces  could  no  further  go ; 
To  make  the  third,  she  joined  the  other  two. 

Carolyn  Wells 


*»] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   DR.    WATTS 


THE   VOICE    OF   THE  LOBSTER 

•c  'r  I  ^  IS  the  voice  of  the  Lobster:   I  heard  him 

declare 
cYou  have  baked  me  too  brown,  I  must 

sugar  my  hair.' 

As  a  duck  with  its  eyelids,  so  he  with  his  nose 
Trims  his  belt  and  his  buttons,  and  turns  out 

his  toes. 

When  the  sands  are  all  dry,  he  is  gay  as  a  lark, 
And   will   talk   in    contemptuous   tones   of  the 

Shark : 

But,  when  the  tide  rises  and  sharks  are  around, 
His  voice  has  a  timid  and  tremulous  sound. 

u  I  passed  by  his  garden,  and  marked,  with  one  eye, 
How  the  Owl  and  the  Panther  were  sharing  a  pie ; 
The  Panther  took  pie-crust,  and  gravy,  and  meat, 
While  the  Owl  had  the  dish  as  its  share  of  the 

treat. 
When  the  pie  was  all  finished,  the   Owl,  as  a 

boon, 

Was  kindly  permitted  to  pocket  the  spoon ; 
While  the  Panther  received  knife  and  fork  with 

a  growl, 

And  concluded  the  banquet  by " 

Lewis  CarrolL 

[4*] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   CROCODILE 

HOW  doth  the  little  crocodile 
Improve  his  shining  tail, 
And  pour  the  waters  of  the  Nile 
On  every  golden  scale ! 

How  cheerfully  he  seems  to  grin, 
How  neatly  spreads  his  claws, 

And  welcomes  little  fishes  in, 
With  gently  smiling  jaws  ! 

Lewis  Carroll. 


43 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER   GOLDSMITH 


WHEN   LOVELY   WOMAN 

WHEN  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor, 
And  finds,  too  late,  that  man  won't 
bend, 

What  earthly  circumstance  can  save  her 
From  disappointment  in  the  end  ? 

The  only  way  to  bring  him  over, 

The  last  experiment  to  try, 
Whether  a  husband  or  a  lover, 

If  he  have  feeling  is  —  to  cry. 

Phcebe  Gary 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  BURNS 


GAELIC    SPEECH;    OR,  "  AULD    LANG 
SYNE"   DONE  UP  IN  TARTAN 

SHOULD  Gaelic  speech  be  e'er  forgot, 
And  never  brocht  to  min', 
For  she  '11  be  spoke  in  Paradise 
In  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne. 
When  Eve,  all  fresh  in  beauty's  charms, 

First  met  fond  Adam's  view, 
The  first  word  that  he  '11  spoke  till  her 
Was,  u  cumar  achum  dhu" 


And  Adam  in  his  garden  fair, 

Whene'er  the  day  did  close, 
The  dish  that  he  '11  to  supper  teuk 

Was  always  Athole  brose. 
When  Adam  from  his  leafy  bower 

Cam  oot  at  broke  o'  day, 
He  '11  always  for  his  morning  teuk 

A  quaich  o'  usquebae. 

An'  when  wi'  Eve  he'll  had  a  crack, 
He  '11  teuk  his  sneeshin'  horn 

An'  on  the  tap  ye  '11  well  mitch  mark 
A  pony  praw  Cairngorm. 
[45  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  sneeshirf  mull  is  fine,  my  friens  — 

The  sneeshin'  mull  is  gran' ; 
We  '11  teukta  hearty  sneesh,  my  triens, 

And  pass  frae  han'  to  han'. 

When  man  first  fan  the  want  o'  claes, 

The  wind  an'  cauld  to  fleg. 
He  twisted  roon'  about  his  waist 

The  tartan  philabeg. 
An'  music  first  on  earth  was  heard 

In  Gaelic  accents  deep, 
When  Jubal  in  his  oxter  squeezed 

The  blether  o'  a  sheep. 

The  praw  bagpipes  is  gran',  my  friens, 

The  praw  bagpipes  is  fine ; 
We'll  teukta  nother  pibroch  yet, 

For  the  days  o'  auld  lang  syne ! 

Anonymous 


MY   FOE 

JOHN   ALCOHOL,  my  foe,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquaint, 
I  'd  siller  in  my  pockets,  John, 
Which  noo,  ye  ken,  I  want ; 
I  spent  it  all  in  treating,  John, 

Because  I  loved  you  so ; 
But  mark  ye,  how  you  Ve  treated  me, 
John  Alcohol,  my  foe. 

[4H- 


A    Parody    Anthology 


John  Alcohol,  my  foe,  John, 

We  've  been  ower  lang  together, 
Sae  ye  maun  tak'  ae  road,  John, 

/ind  I  will  take  anither; 
Foe  we  maun  tumble  down,  John, 

If  hand  in  hand  we  go ; 
And  I  shall  hae  the  bill  to  pay, 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe. 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe,  John, 

Ye  've  blear'd  out  a'  my  een, 
And  lighted  up  my  nose,  John, 

A  fiery  sign  atween  ! 
My  hands  wi'  palsy  shake,  John, 

My  locks  are  like  the  snow; 
Ye  '11  surely  be  the  death  of  me, 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe. 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe,  John, 

'T  was  love  to  you,  I  ween, 
That  gart  me  rise  sae  ear',  John, 

And  sit  sae  late  at  e'en; 
The  best  o'  friens  maun  part,  John, 

It  grieves  me  sair,  ye  know ; 
But  "we  '11  nae  mair  to  yon  town," 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe. 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe,  John, 

Ye  've  wrought  *ne  muckle  skaith , 

And  yet  to  part  v.  i'  you,  John, 
I  own  I  'm  unko'  laith ; 
[47] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


But  I  '11  join  the  temperance  ranks,  John, 

Ye  needna  say  me  no; 
It 's  better  late  than  ne'er  do  weel, 

John  Alcohol,  my  foe. 

Anonymous. 


RIGID   BODY   SINGS 

GIN  a  body  meet  a  body 
Flyin'  through  the  air, 
Gin  a  body  hit  a  body, 
Will  it  fly  ?  and  where  ? 
Ilka  impact  has  its  measure, 

Ne'er  a'  ane  hae  I, 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  measure  me, 
Or,  at  least,  they  try. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Altogether  free, 
How  they  travel  afterwards 

We  do  not  always  see. 
Ilka  problem  has  its  method 

By  analytics  high; 
For  me,  I  ken  na  ane  o'  them, 

But  what  the  waur  am  I  ? 

7.  C.  Maxwell 


[48  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER 
CATHERINE   FANSHAWE 


COCKNEY   ENIGMA   ON   THE 
LETTER    H 

I   DWELLS  in  the  Herth  and  I  breathes  in  the 
Hair; 
If  you  searches  the  Hocean  you  '11  find  that  I  'm 

there  ; 

The  first  of  all  Hangels  in  Holympus  am  Hi, 
Yet  I  'm  banished  from  'Eaven,  expelled   from  on 

'igh. 

But  tho'  on  this  Horb  I  am  destined  to  grovel, 
I  'm   ne'er  seen  in  an  'Ouse,  in  an  'Ut,  nor  an 

'Ovel; 

Not  an  'Oss  nor  an  'Unter  e'er  bears  me,  alas ! 
But  often  I  'm  found  on  the  top  of  a  Hass. 
I  resides  in  a  Hattic  and  loves  not  to  roam, 
And  yet  I  'm  invariably  habsent  from  'Ome. 
Tho'  'ushed  in  the  'Urricane,  of  the  Hatmosphere 

part, 

I  enters  no  'Ed,  I  creeps  into  no  'Art, 
But  look  and  you  '11  see  in  the  Heye  I  appear. 
Only  'ark  and  you  '11  'ear  me  just  breathe  in  the 

Hear; 

Tho'  in  sex  not.  an  'E,  I  am  (strange  paradox  !), 
Not  a  bit  of  an  'Effer,  but  partly  a  Hox. 

[4]  [  49    1 


A    Parody     Anthology 


Of  Heternity  Hi'm  the  beginning !   and  mark, 
Tho'   I  goes  not  with   Noar,  I  'm  the  first  in  the 

Hark. 

I'm  never  in  'Elth  —  have  with  Fysic  no  power; 
I  dies  in  a  Month,  but  comes  back  in  a  Hour. 

Horace  May  hew. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WORDSWORTH 


ON   WORDSWORTH 

HE  lived  amidst  th'  untrodden  ways 
To  Rydal  Lake  that  lead ; 
A  bard  whom  there  was  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  read. 

Behind  a  cloud  his  mystic  sense, 

Deep  hidden,  who  can  spy  ? 
Bright  as  the  night  when  not  a  star 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

Unread  his  works  —  his  "Milk  White  Doe'' 

With  dust  is  dark  and  dim  ; 
It 's  still  in  Longmans'  shop,  and  oh  ! 

The  difference  to  him. 

Anonymous* 


JACOB 

HE  dwelt  among  "  Apartments  let," 
About  five  stories  high ; 
A  man,  I  thought,  that  none  would  get, 
And  very  few  would  try. 

[51  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A  boulder,  by  a  larger  stone 

Half  hidden  in  the  mud, 
Fair  as  a  man  when  only  one 

Is  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  tell 

When  Jacob  was  not  free ; 
But  he  has  got  a  wife  —  and  O ! 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

Phoebe 


FRAGMENT   IN   IMITATION   OF 
WORDSWORTH 

r  I  "\HERE  is  a  river  clear  and  fair, 

'T  is  neither  broad  nor  narrow ; 
It  winds  a  little  here  and  there  — 

It  winds  about  like  any  hare ; 

And  then  it  holds  as  straight  a  course 

As,  on  the  turnpike  road,  a  horse, 

Or,  through  the  air,  an  arrow. 

The  trees  that  grow  upon  the  shore 
Have  grown  a  hundred  years  or  more  \ 
So  long  there  is  no  knowing : 
Old  Daniel  Dobson  does  not  know 
When  first  those  trees  began  to  grow ; 
But  still  they  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew, 
As  if  they  'd  nothing  else  to  do, 
But  ever  must  be  growing. 

is*] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  impulses  of  air  and  sky 

Have  reared  their  stately  heads  so  high, 

And  clothed  their  boughs  with  green; 

Their  leaves  the  dews  of  evening  quaff,  — 

And  when  the  wind  blows  loud  and  keen, 

I  've  seen  the  jolly  timbers  laugh, 

And  shake  their  sides  with  merry  glee  — 

Wagging  their  heads  in  mockery. 

Fixed  are  their  feet  in  solid  earth 

Where  winds  can  never  blow ; 

But  visitings  of  deeper  birth 

Have  reached  their  roots  below. 

For  they  have  gained  the  river's  brink, 

And  of  the  living  waters  drink. 

There's  little  Will,  a  five  years'  child  — 

He  is  my  youngest  boy  ; 

To  look  on  eyes  so  fair  and  wild, 

It  is  a  very  joy. 

He  hath  conversed  with  sun  and  shower, 

And  dwelt  with  every  idle  flower, 

As  fresh  and  gay  as  them. 

He  loiters  with  the  briar-rose,  — 

The  blue-bells  are  his  play-fellows, 

That  dance  upon  their  slender  stem. 

And  I  have  said,  my  little  Will, 
Why  should  he  not  continue  still 
A  thing  of  Nature's  rearing? 
A  thing  beyond  the  world's  control  — 
A  living  vegetable  soul,  - 
No  human  sorrow  fearing. 
[  S3] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


It  were  a  blessed  sight  to  see 
That  child  become  a  willow-tree, 
His  brother  trees  among. 
He  'd  be  four  umes  «as  tali  as  me, 
And  live  three  times  as  long. 

Catherine  M.  Fansbawe. 


I 


JANE  SMITH 

JOURNEYED,  on  a  winter's  day, 

Across  the  lonely  wold ; 
No  bird  did  sing  upon  the  spray, 

And  it  was  very  cold. 


I  had  a  coach  with  horses  four, 

Three  white  (though  one  was  black), 

And  on  they  went  the  common  o'er, 
Nor  swiftness  did  they  lack. 

A  little  girl  ran  by  the  side, 

And  she  was  pinched  and  thin. 

"  Oh,  please,  sir,  do  give  me  a  ride ! 
I  'm  fetching  mother's  gin." 

"  Enter  my  coach,  sweet  child,"  said  I, 
"  For  you  shall  ride  with  me ; 

And  I  will  get  you  your  supply 
Of  mother's  eau-de-vie." 
[54] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  publican  was  stern  and  cold, 
And  said :  u  Her  mother's  score 

Is  writ,  as  you  shall  soon  behold, 
Behind  the  bar-room  door  !  " 

I  blotted  out  the  score  with  tears, 

And  paid  the  money  down; 
And  took  the  maid  of  thirteen  years 

Back  to  her  mother's  town. 

And  though  the  past  with  surges  wild 

Fond  memories  may  sever, 
The  vision  of  that  happy  child 

Will  leave  my  spirits  never  ! 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


ONLY   SEVEN 
(A  Pastoral  Story  after  Wordsworth} 

T    MARVELLED  why  a  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
Should  utter  groans  so  very  wild, 
And  look  as  pale  as  Death. 

Adopting  a  parental  tone, 

I  ask'd  her  why  she  cried ; 
The  damsel  answered  with  a  groan, 

"I've  got  a  pain  inside! 
[  55  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

"I  thought  it  would  have  sent  me  mad 

Last  night  about  eleven." 
Said  I,  u  What  is  it  makes  you  bad  ? 
How  many  apples  have-you  had?" 

She  answered,  u  Only  seven  !  " 

"And  are  you  sure  you  took  no  more, 

My  little  maid  ?  "  quoth  I ; 
ic  Oh,  please,  sir,  mother  gave  me  four, 

But  they  were  in  a  pie!" 

u  If  that 's  the  case,"  I  stammer'd  out, 

"  Of  course  you  Ve  had  eleven." 
The  maiden  answered  with  a  pout, 
u  I  ain't  had  more  nor  seven  !  " 

I  wonder' d  hugely  what  she  meant, 
And  said,  "  I  'm  bad  at  riddles; 

But  I  know  where  little  girls  are  sent 
For  telling  taradiddles. 

ic  Now,  if  you  won't  reform,"  said  I, 
"  You  '11  never  go  to  Heaven." 

But  all  in  vain  ;  each  time  I  try, 

That  little  idiot  makes  reply, 
u  I  ain't  had  more  nor  seven  !  " 

POSTSCRIPT 

To  borraw  Wordsworth's  name  was  wrong, 

Or  slightly  misapplied ; 
And  so  I  'd  better  call  my  song, 

"  Lines  after  Ache-Inside." 

Henry  S.  Leigh- 

[56] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


LUCY   LAKE 

POOR  Lucy  Lake  was  overgrown, 
But  somewhat  underbrained. 
She  did  not  know  enough,  I  own, 
To  go  in  when  it  rained. 

Yet  Lucy  was  constrained  to  go; 

Green  bedding,  —  you  infer. 
Few  people  knew  she  died,  but  oh, 

The  difference  to  her ! 

Newton  Mackintosh. 


tsr) 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER   SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

\OUNG   LOCHINVAR 

(The  true  story  in  blank  verse) 

OH  !   young  Lochinvar  has  come  out   of  the 
West, 
Thro'  all  the  wide  border  his  horse  has  no 

equal, 

Having  cost  him  forty-five  dollars  at  the  market, 
Where  good  nags,  fresh  from  the  country, 
With  burrs  still  in  their  tails  are  selling 
For  a  song ;   and  save  his  good  broadsword 
He  weapon  had  none,  except  a  seven  shooter 
Or  two,  a  pair  of  brass  knuckles,  and  an  Arkansaw 

Toothpick  in  his  boot,  so,  comparatively  speaking, 

He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone, 

Because  there  was  no  one  going  his  way. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for 

Toll-gates ;  he  swam  the  Eske  River  where  ford 

There  was  none,  and  saved  fifteen  cents 

In  ferriage,  but  lost  his  pocket-book,  containing 

Seventeen  dollars  and  a  half,  by  the  operation. 

Ere  he  alighted  at  the  Netherby  mansion 
He  stopped  to  borrow  a  dry  suit  of  clothes, 
And  this  delayed  him  considerably,  so  when 

r  * ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

He  arrived  the  bride  had  consented — the  gallant 
Came  late  —  for  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in 

war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen,  and  the  guests  had 

assembled. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall 
Among  bridesmen  and  kinsmen  and  brothers  and 
Brothers-in-law  and  forty  or  fifty  cousins; 
Then  spake  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  ne'er  opened  his 
head) : 

"  Oh,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  anger, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 
"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  and  she  will  tell  you 
I  have  the  inside  track  in  the  free-for-all 
For  her  affections  !      My  suit  you  denied;  but  let 
That  pass,  while  I  tell  you,  old  fellow,  that  love 
Swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide, 
And  now  I  am  come  with  this  lost  love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  glass  of  beer ; 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  yours  very  truly." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet,  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  nectar  and  threw  down  the  mug, 
Smashing  it  into  a  million  pieces,  while 
He  remarked  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  gun 
From  Seven-up  and  run  the  Number  Nine.     , 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  but  she  looked  up  again 
For  she  well  understood  the  wink  in  his  eye; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could 
Interfere,  "Now  tread  we  a  measure;  first  four 
Half  right  and  left;  swing,"  cried  young  Lochinvar 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door  and  the  charger 

Stood  near  on  three  legs  eating  post-hay ; 

So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

Then  leaped  to  the  saddle  before  her. 

"She  is  won!   we  are  gone!  over  bank!  bush,  and 

spar, 
They  '11  have  swift  steeds  that  follow  "  —  but  in 

the 

Excitement  of  the  moment  he  had  forgotten 
To  untie  the  horse,  and  the  poor  brute  could  . 
Only  gallop  in  a  little  circus  around  the 
H itching-post;  so  the  old  gent  collared 
The  youth  and  gave  him  the  awfullest  lambasting 
That  was  ever  heard  of  on  Canobie  Lee ; 
So  dauntless  in  war  and  so  daring  in  love, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Anonymous, 


A     Parody     Anthology 


AFTER   COLERIDGE 


THE    ANCIENT    MARINER 

be  Wedding  Guest's  Version  of  the  Affair  from  His 
Point  of  View) 

IT  is  an  Ancient  Mariner, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three  — 
In  fact  he  coolly  took  my  arm  — 
"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Bother  your  ships  !  "  said  I,  "  is  this 

The  time  a  yarn  to  spin  ? 
This  is  a  wedding,  don't  you  see, 

And  I  am  next  of  kin. 

"  The  wedding  breakfast  has  begun, 

We  're  hungry  as  can  be  — 
Hold  off!      Unhand  me,  longshore  man  !" 

With  that  his  hand  dropt  he. 

But  there  was  something  in  his  eye, 

That  made  me  sick  and  ill, 
Yet  forced  to  listen  to  his  yarn  — 

The  Mariner  'd  had  his  will. 
6l 


A    Parody    Anthology 


While  Tom  and  Harry  went  their  way 

I  sat  upon  a  stone  — 
So  queer  on  Fanny's  wedding  day 

Me  sitting  there  alone! 

Then  he  began,  that  Mariner, 

To  rove  from  pole  to  pole, 
In  one  long-winded,  lengthened-out, 

Eternal  rigmarole, 

About  a  ship  in  which  he  'd  sailed, 
Though  whither,  goodness  knows, 

Where  "  ice  will  split  with  a  thunder-fit/' 
And  every  day  it  snows. 

And  then  about  a  precious  bird 
•    Of  some  sort  or  another, 
That  —  was  such  nonsense  ever  heard  ?  — 
Used  to  control  the  weather ! 


Now,  at  this  bird  the  Manner 

Resolved  to  have  a  shy, 
And  laid  it  low  with  his  cross-bow -~ 

And  then  the  larks  !     My  eye ! 

For  loss  of  that  uncommon  fowl, 
They  could  n't  get  a  breeze ; 

And  there  they  stuck,  all  out  of  luck, 
And  rotted  on  the  seas. 
[6*  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

The  crew  all  died,  or  seemed  to  die, 

And  he  was  left  alone 
With  that  queer  bird.     You  never  heard 

What  games  were  carried  on  ! 

At  last  one  day  he  stood  and  watched 

The  fishes  in  the  sea, 
And  said,  "  I  'm  blest !  "  and  so  the  ship 

Was  from  the  spell  set  free. 

And  it  began  to  rain  and  blow, 

And  as  it  rained  and  blew, 
The  dead  got  up  and  worked  the  ship  — 

That  was  a  likely  crew  ! 

However,  somehow  he  escaped, 

And  got  again  to  land, 
But  mad  as  any  hatter,  say, 

From  Cornhill  to  the  Strand. 


For  he  believes  that  certain  folks 
Are  singled  out  by  fate, 

To  whom  this  cock-and-bull  affair 
Of  his  he  must  relate. 

Describing  all  the  incidents. 
And  painting  all  the  scenes, 

As  sailors  will  do  in  the  tales 
They  tell  to  the  Marines. 

t6?  1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Confound  the  Ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  knew  I  should  be  late  ; 
And  so  it  was ;  the  wedding  guests 

Had  all  declined  to  wait. 

Another  had  my  place,  and  gave 

My  toast ;  and  sister  Fan 
Said  "  JT  was  a  shame.     What  could  you  want 

With  that  seafaring  man  ?  " 

I  felt  like  one  that  had  been  stunned 
Through  all  this  wrong  and  scorn; 

A  sadder  and  a  later  man 

I  rose  the  morrow  morn.  Anonymous 

STRIKING 

IT  was  a  railway  passenger, 
And  he  lept  out  jauntilie. 
"  Now  up  and  bear,  thou  stout  porter, 
My  two  chattels  to  me. 

"  Bring  hither,  bring  hither  my  bag  so  red, 

And  portmanteau  so  brown ; 
(They  lie  in  the  van,  for  a  trusty  man 

He  labelled  them  London  town:) 

u  And  fetch  me  eke  a  cabman  bold, 

That  I  may  be  his  fare,  his  fare; 
And  he  shall  have  a  good  shilling, 
If  by  two  of  the  clock  he  do  me  bring 
To  the  Terminus,  Euston  Square." 


A    Parody    Anthology 


u  Now,  —  so  to  thee  the  saints  alway, 

Good  gentleman,  give  luck, — 
As  never  a  cab  may  I  find  this  day, 
For  the  cabman  wights  have  struck. 

And  now,  I  wis,  at  the  Red  Post  Inn, 

Or  else  at  the  Dog  and  Duck, 
Or  at  Unicorn  Blue,  or  at  Green  Griffin, 
The  nut-brown  ale  and  the  fine  old  gin 

Right  pleasantly  they  do  suck." 

"  Now  rede  me  aright,  thou  stout  porter, 
What  were  it  best  that  I  should  do : 
For  woe  is  me,  an'  I  reach  not  there 
Or  ever  the  clock  strike  two." 

"  I  have  a  son,  a  lytel  son ; 

Fleet  is  his  foot  as  the  wild  roebuck's : 
Give  him  a  shilling,  and  eke  a  brown, 
And  he  shall  carry  thy  fardels  down 
To  Euston,  or  half  over  London  town, 

On  one  of  the  station  trucks." 

Then  forth  in  a  hurry  did  they  twain  fare, 
The  gent  and  the  son  of  the  stout  porter, 
Who  fled  like  an  arrow,  nor  turned  a  hair, 

Through  all  the  mire  and  muck : 
"  A  ticket,  a  ticket,  sir  clerk,  I  pray  : 

For  by  two  of  the  clock  must  I  needs  away." 
cc  That    may  hardly  be,"  the  clerk  did  say, 
"  For  indeed  —  the  clocks  have  struck." 

Charles  S.  Ca her ley. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   SOUTHEY 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    COLD    AND    HOW 
HE    GOT   IT 

(By  Nortbey-Soutbey-Eastey-Westey) 

"  "T  7DU  are  cold,  Father  William,"  the  young 
Y  man  cried, 

"You  shake  and  you  shiver,  I  say; 
You  Ve  a  cold,  Father  William,  your  nose  it  is  red, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

"In    the    days    of  my    youth,"    Father    William 
replied  — 

(He  was  a  dissembling  old  man) 
u  I  put  lumps  of  ice  in  my  grandpapa's  boots, 

And  snowballed  my  Aunt  Mary  Ann." 

"  Go  along,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried, 

u  You  are  trying  it  on,  sir,  to-day ; 
What   makes  your  teeth  chatter  like  bone  casta- 
nets ? 

Come  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

u  In  the  days  of  my  youth,"  Father  William  replied^ 
"  I  went  to  the  North  Pole  with  Parry ; 

And  now,  my  sweet  boy,  the  Arc-tic  doloreaux 
Plays  with  this  old  man  the  Old  Harry/' 
[66] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Get  out  !   Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried. 

u  Come,  you  should  n't  go  on  in  this  way  ; 
You  are  funny,  but  still  you've  a  frightful  bad  cold  — 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

"  I  am  cold,  then,  dear  youth,"   Father  William 
replied  ; 

"  I  Ve  a  cold,  my  impertinent  son, 
Because  for  some  weeks  my  coals  have  been  bought 

At  forty-eight  shillings  a  ton  !  " 


FATHER   WILLIAM 

U"V  7"OU  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young 
Y      .      man  said, 

u  And  your  hair  has  become  very  white; 
And  yet  you  incessantly  stand  on  your  head — - 
Do  you  think,  at  your  age,  it  is  right  ?  " 

"  In  my  youth,"  Father  William  replied  to  his  son, 

"I  feared  it  might  injure  the  brain; 
But  now  that  I  'm  perfectly  sure  I  have  none, 

Why,  I  do  it  again  and  again." 

"  You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "  as  I  mentioned 
before, 

And  grown  most  uncommonly  fat; 
Yet  you  turned  a  back-somersault  in  at 

Pray  what  is  the  reason  of  that  ?  " 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  In  my  youth,"  said  the  sage,  as  he  shook  his  gray 

locks, 

u  I  kept  all  my  limbs  very  supple 
By  the  use  of  this  ointment  —  one  shilling  the  box  — 
Allow  me  to  sell  you  a  couple." 

u  You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "and  your  jaws  are 

too  weak 

For  anything  tougher  than  suet ; 
Yet  you  finished  the  goose,  with  the  bones  and  the 

beak; 
Pray,  how  did  you  manage  to  do  it  ? " 

"  In  my  youth,"  said  his  father,  "  I  took  to  the  law, 

And  argued  each  case  with  my  wife; 
And  the  muscular  strength  which  it  gave  to  my  jaw, 

Has  lasted  the  rest  of  my  life." 

• 

u  You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  u  one  would  hardly 
suppose 

That  your  eye  was  as  steady  as  ever ; 
Yet  you  balanced  an  eel  on  the  end  of  your  nose  — 

What  made  you  so  awfully  clever  ?  " 

4 1    have    answered    three    questions    and    that   i 

enough," 

Said  his  father  ;   u  don't  give  yourself  airs  ! 
Do  you  think  I  can  listen  all  day  to  such  stuff? 
Be  off,  or  I  '11  kick  you  downstairs  !  " 

Lewis  Carroll 


[68] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


LADY   JANE- 
(Sappbics) 

DOWN    the    green     hill-side    fro'  the    castle 
window 
Lady  Jane  spied  Bill  Amaranth  a-workin'; 
Day  by  day  watched  him  go  about  his  ample 

Nursery  garden. 

Cabbages  thriv'd  there,  wi'  a  mort  o'  green-stuff — 
Kidney  beans,  broad  beans,  onions,  tomatoes, 
Artichokes,  seakale,  vegetable  marrows, 

Early  potatoes. 

Lady  Jane  cared  not  very  much  for  all  these : 
What  she  cared  much  for  was  a  glimpse  o'  Willum 
Strippin'  his  brown  arms  wi'  a  view  to  horti- 
cultural effort. 

Little  guessed  Willum,  never  extra-vain,  that 
Up  the  green  hill-side,  i'  the  gloomy  castle, 
Feminine  eyes  could  so  delight  to  view  his 

Noble  proportions. 

Oniy  one  day  while,  in  an  innocent  mood, 
Moppin'  his  brow  (cos  'twas  a  trifle  sweaty) 
With  a  blue  kerchief — lo,  he  spies  a  white  un 

Coyly  responding. 

[69]  ' 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Oh,  delightsome  Love  !      Not  a  jot  do  you  care 
For  the  restrictions  set  on  human  inter- 
Course  by  cold-blooded  social  refiners  ; 

Nor  do  I,  neither. 

Day  by  day,  peepin'  fro'  behind  the  bean-sticks, 
Willum  observed  that  scrap  o'  white  a-wavin', 
Till  his  hot  sighs  out-growin'  all  repression 

Busted  his  weskit. 


Lady  Jane's  guardian  was  a  haughty  Peer,  who 
Clung  to  old  creeds  and  had  a  nasty  temper; 
Can  we  blame  Willum  that  he  hardly  cared  to 

Risk  a  refusal  ? 


Year  by  year  found  him  busy  'mid  the  bean-sticks 
Wholly  uncertain  how  on  earth  to  take  steps. 
Thus  for  eighteen  years  he  beheld  the  maiden 

Wave  fro'  her  window. 


But  the  nineteenth  spring,  i'  the  castle  post-bag, 
Came  by  book-post  Bill's  catalogue  o'  seedlings 
Mark'd  wi'  blue  ink  at  u  Paragraphs  relatin' 

Mainly  to  Pumpkins." 

"  W.  A.  can,"  so  the  Lady  Jane  read, 

"  Strongly  commend  that  very  noble  Gourd,  the 

Lady  Jane,  first-class  medal,  ornamental ; 

Grows  to  a  great  height." 

[70] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Scarce  a  year  arter,  by  the  scented  hedgerows  — 
Down  the  mown  hill-side,  fro'  the  castle  gateway  — 
Came  a  long  train  and,  i'  the  midst,  a  black  bier, 

Easily  shouldered. 

u  Whose  is  yon  corse  that,  thus  adorned  wi'  gourd 

leaves 
Forth    ye    bear    with   slow   step  ? "      A    mourner 

answer'd, 

"  'T  is  the  poor  clay-cold  body  Lady  Jane  grew 

Tired  to  abide  in." 

"  Delve  my  grave  quick,  then,  for  I  die  to-morrow. 
Delve  it  one  furlong  fro*  the  kidney  bean-sticks, 
Where  I  may  dream  she 's  goin'  on  precisely 

As  she  was  used  to." 

Hardly  died  Bill  when,  fro*  the  Lady  Jane's  grave, 
Crept  to  his  white  death-bed  a  lovely  pumpkin : 
Climb'd  the  house  wall  and  over-arched  his  head  wi' 

Billowy  verdure. 

Simple  this  tale  !  —  but  delicately  perfumed 

As  the  sweet  roadside  honeysuckle.      That 's  why, 

Difficult  though  its  metre  was  to  tackle, 

I  'm  glad  I  wrote  it.  . 

A.  T.  Quiller- Couch 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  CAMPBELL 

THE   NEW   ARRIVAL 

f  I  A  HERE  came  to  port  last  Sunday  night 

The  queerest  little  craft, 
Without  an  inch  of  rigging  on ; 
I  looked  and  looked  —  and  laughed  ! 
It  seemed  so  curious  that  she 

Should  cross  the  Unknown  water, 
And  moor  herself  within  my  room  — 

My  daughter  !     Oh,  my  daughter  ! 
/ 

Yet  by  these  presents  fitness  all 

She  's  welcome  fifty  times, 
And  comes  consigned  in  hope  and  love— 

And  common-metre  rhymes. 
She  has  no  manifest  but  this, 

No  flag  floats  o'er  the  water ; 
She 's  too  new  for  the  British  Lloyds  — 

My  daughter  !     Oh,  my  daughter ! 

Ring  out,  wild  bells  —  and  tame  ones  too, 

Ring  out  the  lover's  moon ; 
Ring  in  the  little  worsted  socks, 

Ring  in  the  bib  and  spoon. 
Ring  out  the  muse,  ring  in  the  nurse, 

Ring  in  the  milk  and  water ; 
Away  with  paper,  pen,  and  ink  — 

My  daughter  !     Oh,  my  daughter  ! 

George  Washington  Cable. 

[•*»•] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


JOHN   THOMPSON'S   DAUGHTER 

A  FELLOW  near  Kentucky's  clime 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry, 
And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  dime 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now,  who  would  cross  the  Ohio, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 

"  O,  I  am  this  young  lady's  beau, 

And  she,  John  Thompson's  daughter. 

"  We  've  fled  before  her  father's  spite 

With  great  precipitation; 
And  should  he  find  us  here  to-night, 

I'd  lose  my  reputation. 

» 

"  They  've  missed  the  girl  and  purse  beside, 
His  horsemen  hard  have  pressed  me; 

And  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride, 
If  yet  they  shall  arrest  me  ?  " 

Out  spoke  the  boatman  then  in  time, 

"  You  shall  not  fail,  don't  fear  it \ 
I  '11  go,  not  for  your  silver  dime, 

But  for  your  manly  spirit. 

. 

u  And  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry ; 
For  though  a  storm  is  coming  on, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 
[   73  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


By  this  the  wind  more  fiercely  rose, 

The  boat  was  at  the  landing; 
And  with  the  drenching  rain  their  clothes 

Grew  wet  where  they  were  standing. 

But  still,  as  wilder  rose  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer ; 

Just  back  a  piece  came  the  police, 
Their  tramping  sounded  nearer. 

"  Oh,  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 

u  It 's  anything  but  funny  ; 
I  '11  leave  the  light  of  loving  eyes, 

But  not  my  father's  money !  " 

Apd  still  they  hurried  in  the  face 

Of  wind  and  rain  unsparing ; 
John  Thompson  reached  the  landing  place  • 

His  wrath  was  turned  to  swearing. 

For  by  the  lightning's  angry  flash, 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 
One  lovely  hand  held  all  the  cash, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover ! 


"  Come  back,  come  back  !  "  he  cried  in  woe, 

Across  the  stormy  water ; 
"  But  leave  the  purse,  and  you  may  go, 

My  daughter,  oh,  my  daughter  !  " 
[74] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


'T  was  vain  ;  they  reached  the  other  shore 
(Such  doom  the  Fates  assign  us) ; 

The  gold  he  piled  went  with  his  child, 
And  he  was  left  there  minus. 

Pbcebe  Gary, 


i  vs  3 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  THOMAS   MOORE 


THE  LAST   CIGAR 

T  I  A  IS  a  last  choice  Havana 

I  hold  here  alone ; 
All  its  fragrant  companions 
In  perfume  have  flown. 
No  more  of  its  kindred 
To  gladden  the  eye, 
So  my  empty  cigar  case 
I  close  with  a  sigh. 

I  '11  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one5 

To  pine ;  but  the  stem 
I  '11  bite  ofF  and  light  thee 

To  waft  thee  to  them. 
And  gently  I  '11  scatter 

The  ashes  you  shed, 
As  your  soul  joins  its  mates  in 

A  cloud  overhead. 

All  pleasure  is  fleeting, 

It  blooms  to  decay ; 
From  the  weeds'  glowing  circle 

The  ash  drops  away. 
A  last  whiff  is  taken, 

The  butt-end  is  thrown, 
And  with  empty  cigar-case, 

I  sit  all  alone.  .Anonymous 

[76] 


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I 


'TWAS    EVER   THUS 

NEVER  bought  a  young  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But,  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 
'T  was  sure  to  butt  me  on  the  sly. 

I  never  drilled  a  cockatoo, 

To  speak  with  almost  human  lip, 
But,  when  a  pretty  phrase  it  knew, 

'T  was  sure  to  give  some  friend  a  nip. 

I  never  trained  a  collie  hound 

To  be  affectionate  and  mild, 
But,  when  I  thought  a  prize  I  'd  found, 

'T  was  sure  to  bite  my  youngest  child. 

I  never  kept  a  tabby  kit 

To  cheer  my  leisure  with  its  tricks, 
But,  when  we  all  grew  fond  of  it, 

'T  was  sure  to  catch  the  neighbor's  chicks. 

I  never  reared  a  turtle-dove, 

To  coo  all  day  with  gentle  breath, 

But,  when  its  life  seemed  one  of  love, 
'T  was  sure  to  peck  its  mate  to  death. 

I  never  —  well  I  never  yet  — 

And  I  have  spent  no  end  of  pelf — 

Invested  money  in  a  pet 

That  did  n't  misconduct  itself. 

Anonymous, 
[77] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"THERE'S   A    BOWER   OF    BEAN- 
VINES" 

f  I  ^HERE'S  a  bower  of  bean-vines  in  Benja- 
min's yard, 
And  the  cabbages  grow  round  it,  planted  for 

greens ; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  't  was  terribly  hard 
To  bend  down  the  bean-poles,  and  pick  off  the 
beans. 

That  bower  and  its  products  I  never  forget, 
But  oft,  when  my  landlady  presses  me  hard, 

I  think,  are  the  cabbages  growing  there  yet, 

Are  the  bean-vines  still  bearing  in  Benjamin's 
yard  ? 

No,  the  bean-vines  soon  withered  that  once  used 

to  wave, 
But  some  beans  had  been  gathered,  the  last  that 

hung  on ; 

And  a  soup  was  distilled  in  a  kettle,  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was 
gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  awfully  hard  ; 

As  thus  good  to  my  taste  as  't  was  then  to  my  eyes 
Is  that  bower  of  bean-vines  in  Benjamin's  yard. 

Pbcebe  Gary. 

[78] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


DISASTER 

*r  \^  WAS  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour ! 

j       My  fondest  hopes  would  not  decay ; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower 

Which  was  the  first  to  fade  away  ! 
The  garden,  where  I  used  to  delve 

Short-frock'd,  still  yields  me  pinks  in  plenty ; 
The  pear-tree  that  I  climbed  at  twelve 

I  see  still  blossoming,  at  twenty. 

I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle ; 

But  I  was  given  a  parroquet  — 
(How  I  did  nurse  him  if  unwell !) 

He  's  imbecile,  but  lingers  yet. 
He  's  green,  with  an  enchanting  tuft ; 

He  melts  me  with  his  small  black  eye; 
He  'd  look  inimitable  stuffed, 

And  knows  it  —  but  he  will  not  die ! 


I  had  a  kitten  —  I  was  rich 

In  pets  —  but  all  too  soon  my  kitten 
Became  a  full-sized  cat,  by  which 

I  Ve  more  than  once  been  scratched  and  bitten 
And  when  for  sleep  her  limbs  she  curPd 

One  day  beside  her  untouch'd  plateful, 
And  glided  calmly  from  the  world, 

I  freely  own  that  I  was  grateful. 
[79] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  then  I  bought  a  dog  —  a  queen  ! 

Ah,  Tiny,  dear  departing  pug  ! 
She  lives,  but  she  is  past  sixteen 

And  scarce  can  crawl  across  the  rug. 
I  loved  her  beautiful  and  kind ; 

Delighted  in  her  pert  bow-wow ; 
But  now  she  snaps  if  you  don't  mind; 

'T  were  lunacy  to  love  her  now. 

I  used  to  think,  should  e'er  mishap 

Betide  my  crumple-visaged  Ti, 
In  shape  of  prowling  thief,  or  trap, 

Or  coarse  bull-terrier  —  I  should  die. 
But  ah  !  disasters  have  their  use, 

And  life  might  e'en  be  too  sunshiny ; 
Nor  would  I  make  myself  a  goose, 

If  some  big  dog  should  swallow  Tiny. 

Charles  S.  Calverley, 


SARAH'S    HALLS 

THE  broom  that  once  through  Sarah's  halls, 
In  hole  and  corner  sped, 
Now  useless  leans  'gainst  Sarah's  walls 
And  gathers  dust  instead. 
So  sweeps  the  slavey  now-a-days 

So  work  is  shifted  o'er, 
And  maids  that  once  gained  honest  praise 
Now  earn  that  praise  no  more  ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


No  more  the  cobweb  from  its  height 

The  broom  of  Sarah  fells  ; 
The  fly  alone  unlucky  wight 

Invades  the  spider's  cells. 
Thus  energy  so  seldom  wakes, 

All  sign  that  Sarah  gives 
Is  when  some  dish  or  platter  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

7*4. 


'TWAS    EVER   THUS 

I  NEVER  rear'd  a  young  gazelle, 
(Because,  you  see,  I  never  tried); 
But  had  it  known  and  loved  me  well, 
No  doubt  the  creature  would  have  died. 
My  rich  and  aged  Uncle  John 

Has  known  me  long  and  loves  me  well 
But  still  persists  in  living  on  — 
I  would  he  were  a  young  gazelle. 

I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower ; 

But,  if  I  had,  I  beg  to  say 
The  blight,  the  wind,  the  sun,  or  shower 

Would  soon  have  withered  it  away. 
I  've  dearly  loved  my  Uncle  John, 

From  childhood  to  the  present  hour, 
And  yet  he  will  go  living  on  — 

I  would  he  were  a  tree  or  flower ! 

Henry  S.  Leigh 

[6]  [  81   l' 


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AFTER  JANE  TAYLOR 


T 


THE    BAT 

WINKLE,  twinkle,  little  bat ! 
How  I  wonder  what  you  're  at ! 


Up  above  the  world  you  fly, 
Like  a  tea-tray  in  the  sky. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   BARRY   CORNWALL 

THE   TEA 

THE  tea  !     The  tea  !     The  beef,  beef-tea  ! 
The  brew  from  gravy-beef  for  me ! 
Without  a  doubt,  as  I  '11  be  bound, 
The  best  for  an  invalid  't  is  found ; 
It 's  better  than  gruel ;  with  sago  vies  ; 
Or  with  the  cradled  babe's  supplies. 

I  like  beef-tea  !     I  like  beef-tea, 

I  'm  satisfied,  and  aye  shall  be, 

With  the  brew  I  love,  and  the  brew  I  know, 

And  take  it  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

If  the  price  should  rise,  or  meat  be  cheap, 

No  matter.     I  '11  to  beef-tea  keep. 

I  love  —  oh,  how  I  love  to  guide 
The  strong  beef-tea  to  its  place  inside, 
When  round  and  round  you  stir  the  spoon 
Or  whistle  thereon  to  cool  it  soon. 
Because  one  knoweth  —  or  ought  to  know, 
That  things  get  cool  whereon  you  blow. 

I  never  have  drunk  the  dull  souchong, 

But  I  for  my  loved  beef-tea  did  long, 

And  inly  yearned  for  that  bountiful  zest, 

Like  a  bird.     As  a  child  on  that  I  messed  — 

And  a  mother  it  was  and  is  to  me, 

For  I  was  weaned  on  the  beef — beef-tea! 

Tom  Hood,  Jr. 
[83] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   BYRON 


THE   ROUT   OF    BELGRAVIA 

THE  Belgravians  came  down  on  the  Queen  in 
her  hold, 

And  their  costumes  were  gleaming  with  pur- 
ple and  gold, 
And  the  sheen  of  their  jewels  was  like  stars  on  the 

sea, 
As  their  chariots  rolled  proudly  down  Piccadill-ee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  Le  Follet  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  in  its  glory  at  noontide  was  seen ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  a  toy-book  all  thumb-marked 

and  worn, 
That  host  four  hours  later  was  tattered  and  torn. 

For  the  rush  of  the  crowd,  which  was  eager  and 

vast, 

Had  rumpled  and  ruined  and  wrecked  as  it  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  wearer  waxed  angry  in  haste, 
As  a  dress  but  once  worn  was  dragged  out  at  the 

waist. 

And  there  lay  the  feather  and  fan  side  by  side, 
But  no  longer  they  nodded  or  waved  in  their  pride ; 
And  there  lay  lace  flounces  and  ruching  in  slips, 
And  spur-torn  material  in  plentiful  strips. 

r  84i 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  there  were  odd  gauntlets  and  pieces  of  hair ; 
And   fragments  of  back-combs  and  slippers  were 

there ; 
And  the  gay  were  all  silent,  their  mirth  was  all 

hushed, 
Whilst  the  dewdrops  stood  out  on  the  brows  of 

the  crushed. 

And  the  dames  of  Belgravia  were  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  matrons  of  Mayfair  all  took  up  the  tale  ; 
And  they  vow  as  they  hurry  unnerved  from  the  scene, 
That  it's  no  trifling  matter  to  call  on  the  Queen. 

Jon  Duan. 


A   GRIEVANCE 

DEAR  Mr.  Editor:  I  wish  to  say  — 
If  you  will  not  be  angry  at  my  writing 

But  I  've  been  used,  since,  childhood's  happy  day, 
When  I  have  thought  of  something,  to  inditing 
it; 

I  seldom  think  of  things;  and,  by  the  way, 
Although  this  metre  may  not  be  exciting,  it 

Enables  one  to  be  extremely  terse, 

Which  is  not  what  one  always  is  in  verse. 

I  used  to  know  a  man,  such  things  befall 

The  observant  wayfarer  through  Fate's  domain 

He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
We  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again ; 
[85  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  know  that  statement  's  not  original ; 

What  statement  is,  since  Shakespere?  or,  since 

Cain, 
What  murder?     I  believe  'twas  Shakespere  said 

it,  of 
Perhaps  it  may  have  been  your  Fighting  Editor. 

Though  why  an  Editor  should  fight,  or  why 
A  Fighter  should  abase  himself  to  edit, 

Are  problems  far  too  difficult  and  high 
For  me  to  solve  with  any  sort  of  credit. 

Some  greatly  more  accomplished  man  than  I 

Must  tackle  them  :  let 's  say  then    Shakespere 
said  it ; 

And,  if  he  did  not,  Lewis  Morris  may 

(Or  even  if  he  did).     Some  other  day, 

When  I  have  nothing  pressing  to  impart, 
I  should  not  mind  dilating  on  this  matter. 

I  feel  its  import  both  in  head  and  heart, 
And  always  did, — especially  the  latter. 

I  could  discuss  it  in  the  busy  mart 

Or  on  the  lonely  housetop ;   hold !  this  chatter 

Diverts  me  from  my  purpose.     To  the  point : 

The  time,  as  Hamlet  said,  is  out  of  joint, 

And  perhaps  I  was  born  to  set  it  right,  — 
A  fact  I  greet  with  perfect  equanimity. 

I  do  not  put  it  down  to  u  cursed  spite," 
I  don'f.  see  any  cause  for  cursing  in  it.     I 
[86] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Have  always  taken  very  great  delight 

In  such  pursuits  since  first  I  read  divinity. 
Whoever  will  may  write  a  nation's  songs 
As  long  as  I  'm  allowed  to  right  its  wrongs. 

What 's  Eton  but  a  nursery  of  wrong-righters, 

A  mighty  mother  of  effective  men; 
A.  training  ground  for  amateur  reciters, 

A  sharpener  of  the  sword  as  of  the  pen; 
A  factory  of  orators  and  fighters, 

A  forcing-house  of  genius  ?     Now  and  then 
The   world    at    large  shrinks    back,  abashed    and 

beaten, 
Unable  to  endure  the  glare  of  Eton. 

I  think  I  said  I  knew  a  man  :  what  then  ? 

I  don't  suppose  such  knowledge  is  forbid. 
We  nearly  all  do,  more  or  less,  know  men,  — 

Or  think  we  do ;  nor  will  a  man  get  rid 
Of  that  delusion,  while  he  wields  a  pen. 

But  who  this  man  was,  what,  if  aught,  he  did, 
Nor  why  I  mentioned  him,  I  do  not  know; 
Nor  what  I  "  wished  to  say  "  a  while  ago. 

J.  K.  Stephen, 


[  87  J 


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AFTER   CHARLES   WOLFE 


THE    BURIAL   OF   THE    BACHELOR 

NOT  a  laugh  was  heard,  not  a  frivolous  note, 
As  the  groom  to  the  wedding  we  carried ; 
Not  a  jester  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
As  the  bachelor  went  to  be  married. 

We  married  him  quickly  that  morning  bright, 
The  leaves  of  our  prayer-books  turning, 

In  the  chancel's  dimly  religious  light, 
And  tears  in  our  eyelids  burning. 

No  useless  nosegay  adorned  his  chest, 

Not  in  chains  but  in  laws  we  bound  him; 

And  he  looked  like  a  bridegroom  trying  his  best 
To  look  used  to  the  scene  around  him. 

Few  and  small  were  the  fees  it  cost, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 

But  we  silently  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  lost 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hurried  him  home  to  be  fed, 

And  tried  our  low  spirits  to  rally, 
That  the  weather  looked  very  like  squalls  overhead 

For  the  passage  from  Dover  to  Calais. 
[  88  1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  bachelor  gone, 
And  o'er  his  frail  fondness  upbraid  him  ; 

But  little  he  '11  reck  if  they  let  him  alone, 

With  his  wife  that  the  parson  hath  made  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  judged  by  the  knocks  which  had  now  begun 
That  their  cabby  was  rapidly  tiring. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  led  them  down, 
From  the  scene  of  his  lame  oratory ; 

We  told  the  four-wheeler  to  drive  them  to  town, 
And  we  left  them  alone  in  their  glory. 

Anonymous. 

NOT   A   SOU    HAD    HE  GOT 

NOT  a  sou  had  he  got — not  a  guinea  or  note, 
And  he  looked  confoundedly  flurried 
As  he  bolted  away  without  paying  his  shot, 
And  the  Landlady  after  him  hurried. 

We  saw  him  again  at  dead  of  night, 
When  home  from  the  club  returning ; 

We  twigged  the  Doctor  beneath  the  light 
Of  the  gas-lamp  brilliantly  burfiing. 

All  bare  and  exposed  to  the  midnight  dews, 
Reclined  in  the  gutter  we  found  him  ; 

And  he  look'd  like  a  gentleman  taking  a  snooze, 
With  his  Marshal  cloak  around  him. 

[89] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"The  Doctor's  as  drunk  as  the  d ,"  we  said, 

And  we  managed  a  shutter  to  borrow ; 

We  raised  him,  and  sighed  at  the  thought  that   his 

head 
Would  "  consumedly  ache"  on  the  morrow. 

We  bore  him  home,  and  we  put  him  to  bed, 
And  we  told  his  wife  and  his  daughter 

fo  give  him,  next  morning,  a  couple  of  red 
Herrings,  with  soda-water. 

Loudly  they  talked  of  his  money  that 's  gone 

And  his  lady  began  to  upbraid  him; 
But  little  he  reck'd,  so  they  let  him  snore  on 

'Neath  the  counterpane  just  as  we  laid  him. 

We  tucked  him  in,  and  had  hardly  done 

When,  beneath  the  window  calling, 
We  heard  the  rough  voice  of  a  son  of  a  gun 

Of  a  watchman  u  One  o'clock  !  "  bawling. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  all  walk'd  down 

i'rom  hi    room  in  the  uppermost  story; 
A  rusuiight  was  placed  on  the  cold  hearth-stone, 
\nd  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory  ! 

\  R.  Harris  Barb w /// 


[  9°  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


\ 

THE   MARRIAGE   OF   SIR   JOHN 
SMITH 

NOT  a  sigh  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  tone, 
As  the  man  to  his  bridal  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  woman  discharged  her  farewell  groan, 
On  the  spot  where  the  fellow  was  married. 

We  married  him  just  about  eight  at  night, 

Our  faces  paler  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the^  gas-lamp's  steady  burning. 

No  useless  watch-chain  covered  his  vest, 

Nor  over-dressed  we  found  him ; 
But  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  wearing  his  best, 

With  a  few  of  his  friends  around  him. 


Few  and  short  were  the  things  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 

But  we  silently  gazed  on  the  man  that  was  wed, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


We  thought,  as  we  silently  stood  about, 
With  spite  and  anger  dying, 

How  the  merest  stranger  had  cut  us  out, 
With  only  half  our  trying. 

[9«  3 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Lightly  we  '11  talk  of  the  fellow  that 's  gone, 

And  oft  for  the  past  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he  '11  reck  if  we  let  him  live  on, 

In  the  house  where  his  wife  conveyed  him. 

But  our  heavy  task  at  length  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  spiteful  squib  and  pun 
The  girls  were  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  turned  to  go, — 

We  had  struggled,  and  we  were  human  ; 

We  shed  not  a  tear,  and  we  spoke  not  our  woe, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  woman. 

Pbcebe  Gary. 


I  9*J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  MRS.    HEMANS 


THE   THYROID    GLAND 

UTT  TE  hear  thee  speak  of  the  thyroid  gland, 
\/V     But  what  thou  say'st  we  don't  understand  ; 

Professor,  where  does  the  acinus  dwell  ? 
We  hashed  our  dissection  and  can't  quite  tell. 
Is  it  where  the  mascula  lutea  flows, 
And  the  suprachordial  tissue  grows  ?  " 

u  Not  there,  not  there,  my  class  !  " 

u  Is  it  far  away  where  the  bronchi  part 
And  the  pneumogastric  controls  the  heart  ? 
Where  endothelium  encardium  lines, 
And  a  subpericardial  nerve  intertwines  ? 
Where  the  subpleural  plexus  of  lymphatics  expand  ? 
Is  it  there,  Professor,  that  gruesome  gland  ? " 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  class  !  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  youths, 
My  myxoedemia,  I  'm  told,  it  soothes. 
Landois  says  stolidly  c  functions  unknown  ; ' 
Foster  adopts  an  enquiring  tone. 
Duct  does  not  lead  to  its  strange  recess, 
Far  below  the  vertex,  above  the  pes, 

It  is  there,  I  am  told,  my  class  !  " 

R.  M. 

[93  ] 


SI    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   KEATS 

i. 
ODE   ON   A   JAR   OF   PICKLES 

\    SWEET,  acidulous,  down-reaching  thrill 
/-\       Pervades  my  sense.     I  seem  to  see  or  hear 
The  lushy  garden-grounds  of  Greenwich  Hill 
In  autumn,  where  the  crispy  leaves  are  sere  ; 
And  odors  haunt  me  of  remotest  spice 

From  the  Levant  or  musky-aired  Cathay, 
Or  from  the  saffron-fields  of  Jericho, 

Where  everything  is  nice. 
The  more  I  sniff,  the  more  I  swoon  away, 
And  what  else  mortal  palate  craves,  forego. 


ii. 

Odors  unsmelled  are  keen,  but  those  I  smell 

Are  keener ;  wherefore  let  me  sniff  again  ! 
Enticing  walnuts,  I  have  known  ye  well 

In  youth,  when  pickles  were  a  passing  pain  ; 
Unwitting  youth,  that  craves  the  candy  stem, 

And  sugar  plums  to  olives  doth  prefer, 
And  even  licks  the  pots  of  marmalade 

When  sweetness  clings  to  them. 

But  now  I  dream  of  ambergris  and  myrrh, 
Tasting  these  walnuts  in  the  poplar  shade. 


A  Parody    Anthology 


m. 

Lo  !   hoarded  coolness  in  the  heart  of  noon, 

Plucked  with  its  dew,  the  cucumber  is  here, 
As  to  the  Dryad's  parching  lips  a  boon, 

And  crescent  bean-pods,  unto  Bacchus  dear ; 
And,  last  of  all,  the  pepper's  pungent  globe, 

The  scarlet  dwelling  of  the  sylph  of  fire, 
Provoking  purple  draughts;  and,  surfeited, 
I  cast  my  trailing  robe 

O'er  my  pale  feet,  touch  up  my  tuneless  lyre, 
And  twist  the  Delphic  wreath  to  suit  my  head. 


IV. 

Here  shall  my  tongue  in  otherwise  be  soured 

Than  fretful  men's  in  parched  and  palsied  days ; 
And,  by  the  mid-May's  dusky  leaves  embowered, 

Forget  the  fruitful  blame,  the  scanty  praise. 
No  sweets  to  them  who  sweet  themselves  were  born, 

Whose  natures  ooze  with  lucent  saccharine; 
Who,  with  sad  repetition  soothly  cloyed, 
The  lemon-tinted  morn 

Enjoy,  and  find  acetic  twilight  fine. 
Wake  I,  or  sleep  ?     The  pickle-jar  is  void. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


!    95 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   HEINE 


IMITATION 

MY  love  she  leans  from  the  window 
Afar  in  a  rosy  land  ; 
And  red  as  a  rose  are  her  blushes, 
And  white  as  a  rose  her  hand. 


And  the  roses  cluster  around  her, 

And  mimic  her  tender  grace  ; 
And  nothing  but  roses  can  blossom 

Wherever  she  shows  her  face. 

I  dwell  in  a  land  of  winter, 

From  my  love  a  world  apart,  — 

But  the  snow  blooms  over  with  roses 
At  the  thought  of  her  in  my  heart. 

This  German  style  of  poem 

Is  uncommonly  popular  now  ; 
For  the  worst  of  us  poets  can  do  it  — 

Since  Heine  showed  us  how. 

H.  C.  Bunner, 


[  96  1 


Parody    Anthology 


COMMONPLACES 

AIN  on  the  face  of  the  sea, 
Rain  on  the  sodden  land, 
And  the  window-pane  is  blurred  with  rain 
As  I  watch  it,  pen  in  hand. 


R 


Mist  on  the  face  of  the  sea, 

Mist  on  the  sodden  land, 
Filling  the  vales  as  daylight  fails, 

And  blotting  the  desolate  sand. 

Voices  from  out  of  the  mist, 

Calling  to  one  another  : 
"  Hath  love  an  end,  thou  more  than  friend, 

Thou  dearer  than  ever  brother  ?  " 

Voices  from  out  of  the  mist, 

Calling  and  passing  away  ; 
But  I  cannot  speak,  for  my  voice  is  weak, 

And  .  .  .  this  is  the  end  of  my  lay. 

Rudyard  Kipling, 


[97] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  HOOD 


SONG   OF  THE   SHEET 

THE    DRIPPING    SHEET 

This  sheet  wrung  out  of  cold  or  tepid  water  is  thrown 
around  the  body,  jjhiick  rubbing  follows,  succeeded 
by  the  same  operation  with  a  dry  sheet.  Its  opera- 
tion is  truly  shocking.  Dress  after  to  prevent  re- 
marks. 

WITH  nerves  all  shattered  and  worn, 
With  shouts  terrific  and  loud, 
A  patient  stood  in  a  cold  wet  sheet  — 
A  Grindrod's  patent  shroud. 
Wet,  wet,  wet, 

In  douche  and  spray  and  sleet, 
And  still,  with  a  voice  I  shall  never  forget, 
He  sang  the  song  of  the  sheet. 

"  Drip,  drip,  drip, 

Dashing,  and  splashing,  and  dipping; 
And  drip,  drip,  drip, 

Till  your  fat  all  melts  to  dripping. 
It 's  oh,  for  dry  deserts  afar, 

Or  let  me  rather  endure 
Curing  with  salt  in  a  family  jar, 

If  this  is  the  water  cure. 

[98] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Rub,  rub,  rub, 

He  '11  rub  away  life  and  limb ; 
Rub,  rub,  rub 

It  seems  to  be  fun  for  him. 
Sheeted  from  head  to  foot, 

I  'd  rather  be  covered  with  dirt ; 
I  '11  give  you  the  sheet  and  the  blankets  to 
boot, 

If  you  '11  only  give  me  my  shirt. 

"  Oh,  men,  with  arms  and  hands, 

Oh,  men,  with  legs  and  shins, 
It  is  not  the  sheet  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  skins. 
Rub,  rub,  rub, 

Body,  and  legs,  and  feet ; 
Rubbing  at  once  with  a  double  rub, 

A  skin  as  well  as  a  sheet. 

"  My  wife  will  see  me  no  more  — 

She  '11  see  the  bone  of  her  bone, 
But  never  will  see  the  flesh  of  her  flesh, 

For  I  '11  have  no  flesh  of  my  own. 
The  little  that  was  my  own, 

They  won't  allow  me  to  keep; 
It 's  a  pity  that  flesh  should  be  so  dear, 

And  water  so  very  cheap. 


"  Pack,  pack,  pack, 

Whenever  your  spirit  flags, 
You  're  doomed  by  hydropathic  laws 

To  be  packed  in  cold  water  rags  ; 
[99] 


A    Parody    .Inlhology 


Rolled  up  on  bed  or  on  floor, 

Or  sweated  to  death  in  a  chair ; 
But  my  chairman's  rank  —  my  shadow  I  ;d  thank 

For  taking  my  place  in  there. 

"  Slop,  slop,  slop, 

Never  a  moment  of  time ; 
Slop,  slop,  slop, 

Slackened  like  mason's  lime. 
Stand  and  freeze  and  steam  — 

Steam  or  freeze  and  stand ; 
I  wish  those  friends  had  their  tongues  benumbed: 

That  told  me  to  leave  dry  land. 

"  Up,  up,  up, 

In  the  morn  before  daylight, 
The  bathman  cries  l  Get  up,' 

(I  wish  he  were  up  for  a  fight). 
While  underneath  the  eaves, 

The  dry  snug  swallows  cling; 
But  give  them  a  cold  wet  sheet  to  their  backs, 

And  see  if  they  '11  come  next  spring. 

u  Oh  !   oh  !   it  stops  my  breath,  9 

(He  calls  it  short  and  sweet), 
Could  they  hear  me  underneath 

I  '11  shout  them  from  the  street ! 
He  says  that  in  half  an  hour 

A  different  man  I  '11  feel ; 
That  I  '11  jump  half  over  the  moon  and  want 

To  walk  into  a  meal ! 

F  I0°  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  I  feel  more  nerve  and  power, 

And  less  of  terror  and  grief; 
I  'm  thinking  now  of  love  and  hope  — 

And  now  of  mutton  and  beef. 
This  glorious  scene  will  rouse  my  heart, 

Oh,  who  would  lie  in  bed  ? 
I  cannot  stop,  but  jump  and  hop, 

Going  like  needle  and  thread." 

With  buoyant  spirit  upborne, 

With  cheeks  both  healthy  and  red, 
The  same  man  ran  up  the  Malvern  Crags, 

Pitying  those  in  bed. 
Trip,  trip,  trip, 

Oh,  life  with  health  is  sweet; 
And  still  in  a  voice  both  strong  and  quick, 
Would  that  its  tones  could  reach  the  sick, 

He  sang  the  Song  of  the  Sheet. 

Anonjmoui 


I   REMEMBER,   I   REMEMBER 

T    REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  wed, 
And  the  little  room  from  which  that  night 
My  smiling  bride  was  led. 
She  did  n't  come  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  make  too  long  a  stay  ; 
But  now  I  often  wish  her  folks 
Had  kept  the  girl  away  ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  remember,  I  remember, 

Her  dresses,  red  and  white, 
Her  bonnets  and  her  caps  and  cloaks, — 

They  cost  an  awful  sight ! 
The  "  corner  lot  "  on  which  I  built, 

And  where  my  brother  met 
At  first  my  wife,  one  washing-day, — 

That  man  is  single  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  court, 
And  thought  that  all  of  married  life 

Was  just  such  pleasant  sport :  — 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

No  care  was  on  my  brow  ; 
I  scarce  could  wait  to  shut  the  gate,  — 

I  'm  not  so  anxious  now  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

My  dear  one's  smile  and  sigh  \ 
I  used  to  think  her  tender  heart 

Was  close  against  the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  it  soothes  me  not 
To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  she  was  n't  got ! 

Phcebe  Gary. 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER  ALFRED   BUNN 


A   YULE-TIDE    PARODY 

WHEN  other  wits  and  other  bards, 
Their  tales  at  Christmas  tell, 
Or  praise  on  cheap  and  colored  cards 
The  time  they  love  so  well, 
Secure  from  scorn  and  ridicule 

I  hope  my  verse  may  be, 

If  I  can  still  remember  Yule, 

And  Yule  remember  me. 


The  days  are  dark,  the  days  are  drear, 

When  dull  December  dies ; 
But,  while  we  mourn  an  ended  year, 

Another's  star  will  rise. 
I  hail  the  season  formed  by  rule 

For  merriment  and  glee ; 
So  let  me  still  remember  Yule, 

And  Yule  remember  me. 


The  rich  plum-pudding  I  enjoy, 
I  greet  the  pie  of  mince ; 

And  loving  both  while  yet  a  boy, 
Have  loved  them  ever  since. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


More  dull  were  I  than  any  mule 

That  eyes  did  ever  see, 
If  I  should  not  remember  Yule, 

And  Yule  remember  me. 

Anonymous. 


SELF-EVIDENT 

WHEN  other  lips  and  other  eyes 
Their  tales  of  love  shall  tell, 
Which  means  the  usual  sort  of  lies 
You  Ve  heard  from  many  a  swell ; 
When,  bored  with  what  you  feel  is  bosh, 

You  'd  give  the  world  to  see 
A  friend,  whose  love  you  know  will  wash, 
Oh,  then  remember  me  ! 

When  Signer  Solo  goes  his  tours, 

And  Captain  Craft  's  at  Ryde, 
And  Lord  Fitzpop  is  on  the  moors, 

And  Lord  knows  who  besides ; 
When  to  exist  you  feel  a  task 

Without  a  friend  at  tea, 
At  such  a  moment  I  but  ask 

That  you  '11  remember  me. 

7.  R.  Plancbe 


[   104] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  LORD   MACAULAY 

THE   LAUREATE'S   TOURNEY 
By  the  Hon.  T—B  —  M. 

FYTTE    THE    FIRST 


TT  THAT    news,   what    news,   thou    pilgrim 


U  ' 

•     M     /  r  ^ 

gray,   what   news    from    the    southern 
land  ? 
How  fare  the  bold   Conservatives,  how  is  it  with 

Ferrand  ? 
How  does  the  little  Prince  of  Wales  —  how  looks 

our  lady  Queen  ? 

And  tell  me,  is  the  monthly  nurse  once  more  at 
Windsor  seen  ?  " 


u  I  bring  no  tidings  from  the  Court,  nor  from  St. 
Stephen's  hall ; 

I  've  heard  the  thundering  tramp  of  horse,  and  the 
trumpet's  battle-call ; 

And  these  old  eyes  have  seen  a  fight,  which  Eng- 
land ne'er  had  seen, 

Since  fell  King  Richard  sobbed  his  soul  through 
blood  on  Bosworth  Green. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"'He's  dead,  he's  dead,  the  Laureate's  dead!' 

'T  was  thus  the  cry   began, 
And    straightway    every    garret-roof   gave    up    its 

minstrel  man ; 
From   Grub  Street,   and    from    Houndsditch,   and 

from  Farringdon  Within, 
The  poets  all  towards  Whitehall  poured  on  with 

eldritch  din. 

"  Loud  yelled  they  for  Sir  James  the  Graham ;  but 

sore  afraid  was  he ; 
A   hardy  knight   were  he  that  might  face  such  a 

minstrelsie. 
4  Now  by  St.  Giles  of  Netherby,  my  patron  Saint, 

I  swear, 
I'd  rather  by  a  thousand  crowns  Lord  Palmerston 

were  here !  — 

u  fc  What   is 't   ye   seek,   ye    rebel   knaves  —  what 

make  you  there  beneath  ?  ' 
c  The  bays,  the  bays  !  we  want  the  bays  !  we  seek 

the  laureate  wreath  ! 
We  seek  the  butt  of  generous  wine  that  cheers  the 

son  of  song ; 
Choose  thou  among  us  all,  Sir  Knight  —  we  may 

not  tarry  long ! ' 

"  Loud  laughed  the   good  Sir  James   in   scon 

c  Rare  jest  it  were,  I  think, 
But  one  poor  butt  of  Xeres,  and  a  thousand 

to  drink ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


An'  if  it  flowed  with  wine  or  beer,  'tis  easy  to  be 

seen, 
That   dry   within  the  hour  would  be   the  well  of 

Hippocrene. 

u  c  Tell  me,  if  on  Parnassus'  heights  there  grow  a 

thousand   sheaves ; 
Or  has  Apollo's  laurel  bush  yet  borne  ten  hundred 

leaves  ? 
Or  if  so  many  leaves  were  there,  how  long  would 

they  sustain 
The  ravage  and  the  glutton  bite  of  such  a  locust 

train  ? 

u  c  No  !  get  ye  back  into  your  dens,  take  counsel 

for  the   night, 
And  choose   me   out  two  champions   to  meet  in 

deadly  fight ; 
To-morrow's  dawn  shall  see  the  lists  marked  out 

in  Spitalfields, 
And  he  who  wins  shall  have  the  bays,  and  he  shall 

die  who  yields  !  ' 

"  Down    went    the   window   with    a    crash,  —  in 

silence    and    in    fear 
Each     ragged    bard     looked    anxiously    upon    his 

neighbor  near ; 
Then  up  and  spake  young  Tennyson  — 4  Who  's 

here  that  fears  for  death  ? 
'T  were  better  one  of  us  shall  die,  than  England 

lose   the  wreath  ! 

[  -07] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"c  Let's  cast  the  lot   among  us  now,  which  two 

shall  fight  to-morrow ; 
For  armor  bright  we  '11  club  our  mite,  and  horses 

we  can  borrow ; 
'T  were  shame  that  bards  of  France  should  sneer, 

and  German  Dichters  too, 
If  none    of  British   song  might   dare    a   deed  of 

derringdo  ! ' 

u  c  The  lists  of  Love  are  mine,'  said  Moore,  c  and 

not  the  lists  of  Mars  ; ' 
Said  Hunt,  CI  seek  the  jars  of  wine,  but  shun  the 

combat's  jars !  ' 
4 1  'm  old,'  quoth  Samuel   Rogers.  — c  Faith,'  says 

Campbell,  4  so  am  I !  ' 
c  And   I'm   in   holy  orders,  sir ! '  quoth  Tom  of 

Ingoldsby. 

" c  Now  out  upon  ye,  craven  loons,'  cried  Moxoh, 

good  at  need ; 
c  Bide,  if  ye  will,  secure  at  home,  and  sleep  while 

others  bleed. 
I    second    Alfred's    motion,  boys,  —  let 's   try   the 

chance  of  lot ; 
And  monks  shall  sing,  and  bells  shall  ring,  for  him 

that  goes  to  pot.' 

"Eight  hundred  minstrels  slunk  away  —  two  hun- 
dred stayed  to  draw  ; 

Now  Heaven  protect  the  daring  wight  that  pulls 
the  longest  straw  ! 


Parody    Anthology 


'T  is    done !    't  is    done !      And    who   hath    won  ? 

Keep  silence  one  and  all, — 
The  first  is  William  Wordsworth  hight,  the  second 

Ned  Fitzball !  " 


FYTTE    THE    SECOND 

Oh,  bright  and  gay  hath  dawned  the  day  on  lordly 

Spitalfields,  — 
How  flash  the  rays  with  ardent  blaze  from  polished 

helms  and  shields  ! 
On  either  side  the  chivalry  of  England  throng  the 

green, 
And  in  the  middle  balcony  appears  our   gracious 

Queen. 

With  iron  fists,  to  keep  the  lists,  two  valiant  knights 
appear, 

The  Marquis  Hal  of  Waterford,  and  stout  Sir 
Aubrey  Vere. 

"  What  ho  !  there,  herald,  blow  the  trump  !  Let 's 
see  who  comes  to  claim 

The  butt  of  golden  Xeres,  and  the  Laureate's  hon- 
ored name !  " 


That  instant  dashed  into  the  lists,  all  armed  from 

head  to  heel, 
On  courser  brown,   with   vizor  down,  a    warrior 

sheathed  in  steel ; 

[  109  ]        . 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Then  said  our  Queen  —  "Was  ever  seen  so  stout  a 

knight  and  tall  ? 
His  name  —  his  race?"  — "An't  please  your  grace, 

it  is  the  brave  Fitzball. 

"Oft  in  the  Melodrama  line  his  prowess  hath  been 

shown, 
And  well  throughout  the  Surrey  side  his  thirst  for 

blood  is  known. 
But  see,  the  other  champion  comes!"  —  Then  rang 

the  startled  air 
With  shouts  of  "  Wordsworth,  Wordsworth,  ho  ! 

the  bard  of  Rydal  's  there." 

And   lo!  upon   a  little  steed,  unmeet  for  such  a 

course, 
Appeared  the  honored  veteran  ;  but  weak  seemed 

man  and  horse. 
Then  shook  their  ears  the  sapient  peers,  —  "That 

joust  will  soon  be  done : 
My  Lord  of  Brougham,  I  '11  back  Fitzball,  and  give 

you  two  to  one  !  " 

"Done,"  quoth  the  Brougham, — "And  done  with 
you  !  "  "  Now  minstrels,  are  you  ready  ?  " 

Exclaimed  the  Lord  of  Waterford,  —  "You'd  better 
both  sit  steady. 

Blow,  trumpets,  blow  the  note  of  charge!  and  for- 
ward to  the  fight !  " 

"Amen!"  said  good  Sir  Aubrey  Vere;  "Saint 
Schism  defend  the  right !  " 


.  A    Parody    Anthology 

As  sweeps  the  blast  against  the  mast  when  blows 

the  furious  squall, 
So  started  at  the  trumpet's  sound  the  terrible  Fitz- 

ball; 
His  lance  he  bore  his  breast  before, — Saint  George 

protect  the  just ! 
Or  Wordsworth's  hoary  head  must  roll  along  the 

shameful  dust ! 

"  Who  threw  that  calthrop  ?     Seize  the  knave  !  " 

Alas  !  the  deed  is  done; 
Down  went  the  steed,  and  o'er  his  head  flew  bright 

Apollo's  son. 
"  Undo  his  helmet !  cut  the  lace  !   pour  water  on 

his  head  !  " 
u  It    ain't   no   use  at  all,  my  lord  j  'cos  vy  ?   the 

covey  's  dead  !  " 

Above  him  stood  the  Rydal  bard  —  his  face  was 

full  of  woe. 
u  Now  there  thou  liest,  stiff  and  stark,  who  never 

feared  a  foe : 
A  braver  knight,  or  more  renowned  in  tourney  and 

in  hall, 
Ne'er  brought  the  upper  gallery  down  than  *errible 

Fitzball!" 

They  led  our  Wordsworth  to  the    Queen  —  she 

crowned  him  with  the  bays 
And   wished    him    many  happy  years,  and    many 

quarter-days ; 

[  i"  3 


A    Parody    Anthology    . 

And  if  you  'd  have  the  story  told  by  abler  lips  than 

mine, 
You  've  but  to  call  at  Rydal  Mount,  and  taste  the 

Laureate's  wine ! 

William  Aytoun. 


[    112     j 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  EMERSON 


MUTTON 

IF  the  fat  butcher  thinks  he  slays, 
Or  he  —  the  mutton  —  thinks  he's  slain, 
Why,  "troth  is  truth,"  the  eater  says  — 
"  I  '11  come,  and  cut  and  come  again." 

To  hungry  wolves  that  on  him  leer 

Mutton  is  cheap,  and  sheep  the  same, 
No  famished  god  would  at  him  sneer  — 
.To  famine,  chops  are  more  than  fame. 

Who  hiss  at  him,  him  but  assures 

That  they  are  geese,  but  wanting  wings  — 

Your  coat  is  his  whose  life  is  yours, 
And  baa !  the  hymn  the  mutton  sings. 

Ye  curs,  and  gods  of  grander  blood, 
And  you,  ye  Paddies  fresh  from  Cork, 

Come  taste,  ye  lovers  of  the  good  — 

Eat !     Stuff!  and  turn  your  back  on  pork. 

Anonymous, 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  MARY  HOWITT 


THE   LOBSTER   QUADRILLE 

"TT7ILL  you  walk   a  little   faster?"  said  a 
\/ \l          whiting  to  a  snail, 

"  There 's  a   porpoise   close  behind  us, 
and  he  's  treading  on  my  tail. 
See  how  eagerly  the  lobsters   and   the   turtles  all 

advance ! 
They  are  waiting  on  the  shingle  —  will  you  come 

and  join  the  dance  ? 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  will 

you  join  the  dance  ? 

Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  won't 
you  join  the  dance  ? 

u  You  can  really  have  no  notion  how  delightful  it 

will  be 
When  they  take  us  up  and  throw  us,  with  the  lob- 

^ters,  out  to  sea  !  " 
But  the  snail  replied  u  Too  far,  too  far ! "  and  gave 

a  look  askance  — 
Said  he  thanked  the  whiting  kindly,  but  he  would 

not  join  the  dance. 
Would  not,  could  not,  would    not,  could  notr 

would  not  join  the  dance. 

Would  not,  could  not,  would    not,  could  not, 
could  not  join  the  dance. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  What  matters  it  how  far  we  go  ?  "  his  scaly  friend 

replied. 
"There  is  another  shore,  you  know,  upon  the  other 

side. 
The  further  off  from  England   the   nearer    is    to 

France — 
Then  turn  not  pale,  beloved  snail,  but  come  and  join 

the  dance. 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  will 

you  join  the  dance  ? 

Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  won't 
you  join  the  dance  ?  " 

Lewis  Carroll 


I  »'S  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  MRS.  BROWNING 


IN   THE   GLOAMING 

IN  the  gloaming  to  be  roaming,  where  the  crested 
waves  are  foaming, 
And  the  shy  mermaidens  combing  locks  that 

ripple  to  their  feet ; 
When  the  gloaming  is,  I  never  made  the  ghost  of 

an  endeavor 

To  discover — but  whatever  were  the  hour,  it  would 
be  sweet. 

u  To  their  feet,"  I  say,  for  Leech's  sketch  indis- 
putably teaches 

That  the  mermaids  of  our  beaches  do  not  end  in 
ugly  tails, 

Nor  have  homes  among  the  corals ;  but  are  shod 
with  neat  balmorals, 

An  arrangement  no  one  quarrels  with,  as  many 
might  with  scales. 

Sweet  to  roam  beneath  a  shady  cliff,  of  course  with 

some  young  lady, 

Lalage,  Naerea,  Haidee,  or  Elaine,  or  Mary  Ann  : 
Love,  you  dear  delusive  dream,  you  !     Very  sweet 

your  victims  deem  you, 
When,  heard  only  by  the  seamew,  they  talk  all  the 

stuff  one  can. 

r  »f  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Sweet  to  haste,  a  licensed  lover,  to  Miss  Pinkerton, 

the  glover; 
Having  managed  to  discover  what  is  dear  Naerea's 

"  size  "  : 
P'raps  to  touch  that  wrist  so  slender,  as  your  tiny 

gift  you  tender, 
And  to  read  you  're  no  offender,  in  those  laughing 

hazel  eyes. 

Then  to  hear  her  call  you   u  Harry,"  when  she 

makes  you  fetch  and  carry  — 
O  young  men  about  to  marry,  what  a  blessed  thing 

it  is ! 
To  be  photograph'd  —  together  —  cased  in  pretty 

Russia  leather  — 
Hear    her   gravely    doubting    whether    they    have 

spoilt  your  honest  phiz ! 

Then  to  bring  your  plighted  fair  one  first  a  ring  — 

a  rich  and  rare  one  — 
Next  a  bracelet,  if  she  '11  wear  one,  and  a  heap  of 

things  beside ; 
And  serenely  bending  o'er  her,  to  inquire  if  it  would 

bore  her 
To  say  when  her  own  adorer  may  aspire  to  call  her 

bride ! 

Then,  the  days  of  courtship  over,  with  your  WIFE 

to  start  for  Dover 
Or  Dieppe  —  and  live  in  clover  evermore,  what  e'er 

befalls; 

[  "7] 


A    Parody    Anthology' 

For  I  've  read  in  many  a  novel  that,  unless  they  Ve 

souls  that  grovel 
Folks  prefer  in  fact  a  hovel  to  your  dreary  marble 

halls. 

To  sit,  happy  married  lovers ;  Phillis  trifling  with  a 

plover's 
Egg,  while  Corydon  uncovers  with  a  grace  the  Sally 

Lunn, 
Or  dissects  the  lucky  pheasant  —  that,  I  think,  were 

passing  pleasant, 
As  I  sit    alone  at  present,  dreaming   darkly  of  a 

Dun. 

C.  S.  Calverley. 


GWENDOLINE 

*r  I  A  WAS  not  the  brown  of  chestnut  boughs 

That  shadowed  her  so  finely ; 
It  was  the  hair  that  swept  her  brows, 
And  framed  her  face  divinely ; 
Her  tawny  hair,  her  purple  eyes, 

The  spirit  was  ensphered  in, 
That  took  you  with  such  swift  surprise, 
Provided  you  had  peered  in. 

Her  velvet  foot  amid  the  moss 

And  on  the  daisies  patted, 
As,  querulous  with  sense  of  loss, 

It  tore  the  herbage  matted. 

[  "M 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"And  come  he  early,  come  he  late," 

She  saith,  "  it  will  undo  me; 
The  sharp  fore-speeded  shaft  of  fate 

Already  quivers  through  me. 

"  When  I  beheld  his  red-roan  steed, 

I  knew  what  aim  impelled  it. 
And  that  dim  scarf  of  silver  brede, 

I  guessed  for  whom  he  held  it. 
I  recked  not,  while  he  flaunted  by, 

Of  Love's  relentless  vi'lence, 
Yet  o'er  me  crashed  the  summer  sky, 

In  thunders  of  blue  silence. 

u  His  hoof-prints  crumbled  down  the  dale, 

But  left  behind  their  lava ; 
What  should  have  been  my  woman's  mail 

Grew  jellied  as  guava. 
I  looked  him  proud,  but  'neath  my  pride 

I  felt  a  boneless  tremor ; 
He  was  the  Beer,  I  descried, 

And  I  was  but  the  Seemer ! 

u  Ah,  how  to  be  what  then  I  seemed, 

And  bid  him  seem  that  is  so ! 
We  always  tangle  threads  we  dreamed, 

And  contravene  our  bliss  so, 
I  see  the  red-roan  steed  again  ! 

He  looks  as  something  sought  he; 
Why,  hoity-toity  !  —  he  is  fain, 

So  7'11  be  cold  and  haughty  !  " 

Bayard  Taylor 
["9] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  LONGFELLOW 


THE   MODERN   HIAWATHA 

HE  killed  the  noble  Mudjokivis. 
Of  the  skin  he  made  him  mittens, 
Made  them  with  the  fur  side  inside, 
Made  them  with  the  skin  side  outside. 
He,  to  get  the  warm  side  inside, 
Put  the  inside  skin  side  outside ; 
He,  to  get  the  cold  side  outside, 
Put  the  warm  side  fur  side  inside. 
That  's  why  he  put  the  fur  side  inside, 
Why  he  put  the  skin  side  outside, 
Why  he  turned  them  inside  outside. 

^  j^v  Anonymous. 


HIGHER 

THE  shadows  of  night  were  a-comin'  dou 
swift, 
And  the  dazzlin'  snow  lay  drift  on  drift, 
As  thro'  a  village  a  youth  did  go, 
A-carryin'  a  flag  with  this  motto,  — 

Higher! 

[    120    ]  . 


A    Parody    Anthology 


O'er  a  forehead  high  curled  copious  hair, 
His  nose  a  Roman,  complexion  fair, 
O'er  an  eagle  eye  an  auburn  lash, 
And  he  never  stopped  shoutin'  thro'  his  moustache  ! 

«  Higher ! " 

He  saw  thro'  the  windows  as  he  kept  gettin'  upper 
A  number  of  families  sittin'  at  supper, 
But  he  eyes  the  slippery  rocks  very  keen 
And  fled  as  he  cried,  and  cried  while  a  fleein'  — 

«  Higher !  "      ' 


"  Take  care  you  there  J  "  said  an  old  woman ;  "  stop  ! 
It 's  blowing  gales  up  there  on  top  — 
You  '11  tumble  off  on  t'  other  side  !  " 
But  the  hurryin'  stranger  loud  replied, 

"  Higher ! " 


u  Oh  !  don't  you  go  up  such  a  shocking  night, 
Come  sleep  on  my  lap,"  said  a  maiden  bright. 
On  his  Roman  nose  a  tear-drop  come, 
But  still  he  remarked,  as  he  upward  clomb, 

"  Higher !  " 


u  Look  out  for  the  branch  of  that  sycamore-tree  ' 
Dodge  rolling  stones,  if  any  you  see  !  " 
Sayin'  which  the  farmer  went  home  to  bed 
And  the  singular  voice  replied  overhead, 

"Higher!" 


A    Parody    Anthology 


About  quarter  past  six  the  next  afternoon, 
A  man  accidentally  goin'  up  soon, 
Heard  spoken  above  him  as  often  as  twice 
The  very  same  word  in  a  very  weak  voice, 

«  Higher !  " 

And  not  far,  I  believe,  from  quarter  of  seven  — 
He  was  slow  gettin'  up,  the  road  bein'  uneven  — 
Found  the  stranger  dead  in  the  drifted  snow, 
Still  clutchin'  the  flag  with  the  motto  — 

Higher ! 

Yes !  lifeless,  defunct,  without  any  doubt, 
The  lamp  of  life  being  decidedly  out, 
On  the  dreary  hillside  the  youth  was  a  layin'  ! 
And  there  was  no  more  use  for  him  to  be  sayin' 

«  Higher ! " 

Anonymous* 

TOPSIDE    GALAH! 

r  I  ^HAT  nightee  teem  he  come  chop,  chop, 
One  young  man  walkee,  no  can  stop, 
Colo  makee ;  icee  makee ; 

He  got  flag ;  chop  b'long  welly  culio,  see  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 

He  too  muchee  folly ;  one  piecee  eye 
Lookee  sharp  —  so  fashion  —  alia  same  mi ; 
He  talkee  largee,  talkee  stlong, 
To  muchee  culio;  alia  same  gong  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Inside  any  house  he  can  see  light ; 
Any  piecee  loom  got  fire  all  light ; 
He  lookee  see  plenty  ice  more  high, 
Inside  he  mouf  he  plenty  cly  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 


"  No  can  walkee !  "  olo  man  speakee  he  5 
u  Bimeby  lain  come,  no  can  see ; 
Hab  got  water  welly  wide !  " 
Maskee,  mi  must  go  topside  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 


<c  Man-man,"  one  galo  talkee  he, 
"  What  for  you  go  topside  look  see  ?  " 
"  Nother  teem,"  he  makee  plenty  cly, 
Maskee,  alia  teem  walkee  plenty  high  — 
Topside  Galah ! 

u  Take  care  that  spilum  tlee,  young  man ; 
Take  care  that  icee  !  "  he  no  man-man 
That  coolie  chin-chin  he  good-night ; 
He  talkee  "  mi  can  go  all  light  "  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 


Joss  pidgin  man  chop-chop  begin, 
Morning  teem  that  Joss  chin-chin, 
No  see  any  man,  he  plenty  fear, 
Cause  some  man  talkee,  he  can  hear  — 
Topside  Galah  ! 

[  "3  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

oung  man  makee  die ;  one  largee  dog  see 
Too  muchee  bobbery,  findee  he. 
Hand  too  muchee  colo,  inside  can  stop 
Alia  same  piecee  flag,  got  culio  chop  — 
Topside  Galah ! 

Anonymous 


EXCELSIOR 

r  I  "VHE  swampy  State  of  Illinois 

Contained  a  greenish  sort  of  boy, 
Who  read  with  idiotic  joy  — 

"Excelsior!" 

He  tarried  not  to  eat  or  drink, 
But  put  a  flag  of  lightish  pink, 
And  traced  on  it  in  violet  ink  — 
Excelsior ! 

Though  what  he  meant  by  that  absurd, 
Uncouth,  and  stupid,  senseless  word, 
Has  not  been  placed  upon  record  — 
Excelsior  ! 

The  characters  were  very  plain, 
In  German  text,  yet  he  was  fain 
With  greater  clearness  to  explain  — 
Excelsior ! 

And  so  he  ran,  this  stupid  wight, 
And  hollered  out  with  all  his  might, 
(As  to  a  person  out  of  sight)  — 

"  Excelsior ! JI 


A    Parody    Anthology 

And  everybody  thought  the  lad 
Within  an  ace  of  being  mad, 
Who  cried  in  accents  stern  and  sad  — 
"  Excelsior !  " 

u  Come  to  my  arms,"  the  maiden  cried ; 
The  youth  grinned  sheepishly,  and  sighed, 
And  then  appropriately  replied  — 

"  Excelsior !  " 

The  evening  sun  is  in  the  sky, 

But  still  the  creature  mounts  on  high 

And  shouts  (nor  gives  a  reason  why) 

"  Excelsior ! " 

And  ere  he  gains  the  topmost  crag 
His  feeble  legs  begin  to  lag; 
Unsteadily  he  holds  the  flag  — 

Excelsior ! 

Now  P.  C.  Nab  is  on  his  track  ! 
He  puts  him  in  an  empty  sack, 
And  brings  him  home  upon  his  back  — 
Excelsior ! 

Nab  takes  him  to  a  lumber  store, 
They  toss  him  in  and  lock  the  door, 
Which  only  makes  him  bawl  the  more  — 
"  Excelsior ! " 

Anonymous. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"THE    DAY   IS   DONE" 

THE  day  is  done,  and  darkness 
From  the  wirig  of  night  is  loosed, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward, 
From  a  chicken  going  to  roost. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  baker, 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 
That  I  cannot  well  resist. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  like  being  sick, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  a  brickbat  resembles  a  brick. 

Come,  get  for  me  some  supper,  — * 

A  good  and  regular  meal  — 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

And  banish  the  pain  I  feel. 

Not  from  the  pastry  bakers, 
Not  from  the  shops  for  cake ; 

I  would  n't  give  a  farthing 
For  all  that  they  can  make. 

For,  like  the  soup  at  dinner, 
Such  things  would  but  suggest 

Some  dishes  more  substantial, 
And  to-night  I  want  the  best. 


A    Parody    Antholjgy 


Go  to  some  honest  butcher, 

Whose  beef  is  fresh  and  nice, 
As  any  they  have  in  the  city, 

And  get  a  liberal  slice. 

Such  things  through  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
For  sad  and  desperate  feelings, 

Are  wonderful  remedies. 

They  have  an  astonishing  power 

To  aid  and  reinforce, 
And  come  like  the  "  finally,  brethren," 

That  follows  a  long  discourse. 

Then  get  me  a  tender  sirloin 

From  off  the  bench  or  hook. 
And  lend  to  its  sterling  goodness 

The  science  of  the  cook. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  comfort, 
And  the  cares  with  which  it  begun 

Shall  fold  up  their  blankets  like  Indians, 
And  silently  cut  and  run. 

Phoebe  Gary. 

A   PSALM    OF   LIFE 

TELL  me  not,  in  idle  jingle, 
Marriage  is  an  empty  dream, 
For  the  girl  is  dead  that  's  single, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 
[  "7  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Married  life  is  real,  earnest, 

Single  blessedness  a  fib, 
Taken  from  man,  to  man  returnest, 

Has  been  spoken  of  the  rib. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Nearer  brings  the  wedding-day. 

Life  is  long,  and  youth  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts,  if  there  we  search, 

Still  like  steady  drums  are  beating 
Anxious  marches  to  the  Church. 


In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle; 

Be  a  woman,  be  a  wife ! 


Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act —  act  in  the  living  Present. 

Heart  within,  and  Man  ahead  ! 

Lives  of  married  folks  remind  us 
We  can  live  our  lives  as  well, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us ;  — 
Such  examples  as  will  tell ;  — 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Such  examples,  that  another, 

Sailing  far  from  Hymen's  port,  ^ 

A  forlorn,  unmarried  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart,  and  -court. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  the  heart  and  head  begin  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor,  and  to  win  ! 

Pbcebe  Gary. 


HOW   OFTEN 

THEY  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
In  a  park  not  far  from  the  town  ; 
They  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
Because  they  did  n't  sit  down. 

The  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 

Behind  the  dark  church  spire  ; 
The  moon  rose  o'er  the  city 

And  kept  on  rising  highen 

How  often,  oh,  How  often  ! 

They  whispered  words  so  soft  ; 
How  often,  oh,  how  often  ; 

How  often,  oh,  how  oft  ! 

Ben  King 


129 


A    Parody    Anthology 


DESOLATION 

OOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
^S  Stands  the  old  fashioned  country  seat. 
^-^  Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw. 
And  there  throughout  the  livelong  day, 
Jemima  plays  the  pi-a-na. 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 


In  the  front  parlor  there  it  stands, 
And  there  Jemima  plies  her  hands, 
While  her  papa,  beneath  his  cloak, 
Mutters  and  groans :  "  This  is  no  joke  !  " 
And  swears  to  himself  and  sighs,  alas ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass. 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 


Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth 
She  plays  as  if  she  owncH  the  earth. 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
She  drums  as  if  it  did  her  good, 
And  still  she  sits  from  morn  till  night 
And  plunks  away  with  main  and  might 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 

t'30] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  hospitality  ; 
But  that  was  many  years  before 
Jemima  dallied  with  the  score. 
When  she  began  her  daily  plunk, 
Into  their  graves  the  neighbors  sunk. 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 

To  other  worlds  they  've  long  since  fled, 
All  thankful  that  they  're  safely  dead. 
They  stood  the  racket  while  alive 
Until  Jemima  rose  at  five. 
And  then  they  laid  their  burdens  down, 
And  one  and  all  they  skipped  the  town. 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 

Tom  Masson. 


I 


THE  BIRDS   AND  THE  PHEASANT 

SHOT  a  partridge  in  the  air, 

It  fell  in  turnips,  "  Don  "  knew  where; 
For  just  as  it  dropped,  with  my  right 
I  stopped  another  in  its  flight. 


I  killed  a  pheasant  in  the  copse, 
It  fell  amongst  the  fir-tree  tops ; 

For  though  a  pheasant's  flight  is  strong, 
A  cock,  hard  hit,  cannot  fly  long. 


A    Parody    Anthoiogy 


Soon,  soon  afterwards,  in  a  pie, 
I  found  the  birds  in  jelly  lie ; 
And  the  pheasant  at  a  fortnight's  end, 
.    I  found  again  in  the  carte  of  a  friend. 

Punch 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WHITTIER 

HIRAM    HOVER 

(A  Ballad  of  New  England  life) 

WHERE  the  Moosatockmaguntic 
Pours  its  waters  in  the  Skuntic, 
Met,  along  the  forest  side 
Hiram  Hover,  Huldah  Hyde. 

She,  a  maiden  fair  and  dapper, 
He,  a  red-haired,  stalwart  trapper, 
Hunting  beaver,  mink,  and  skunk 
In  the  woodlands  of  Squeedunk. 

She,  Pentucket's  pensive  daughter, 
Walked  beside  the  Skuntic  water 
Gathering,  in  her  apron  wet, 
Snake-root,  mint,  and  bouncing-bet 

w  Why,"  he  murmured,  loth  to  leave  her, 
u  Gather  yarbs  for  chills  and  fever, 
When  a  lovyer  bold  and  true, 
Only  waits  to  gather  you  ?  " 

•c  Go,"  she  answered,  "  I  'm  not  hasty, 

I  prefer  a  man  more  tasty ;    % 

Leastways,  one  to  please  me  well 
Should  not  have  a  beasty  smell." 

[  '33  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Haughty  Huldah  !  "  Hiram  answered, 
"  Mind  and  heart  alike  are  cancered ; 
Jest  look  here  !  these  peltries  give 
Cash,  wherefrom  a  pair  may  live. 

"  I,  you  think,  am  but  a  vagrant, 
Trapping  beasts  by  no  means  fragrant ; 
Yet,  I  'm  sure  it 's  worth  a  thank  — 
I  've  a  handsome  sum  in  bank." 


Turned  and  vanished  Hiram  Hover, 

And,  before  the  year  was  over, 
Huldah,  with  the  yarbs  she  sold, 
Bought  a  cape,  against  the  cold. 

Black  and  thick  the  furry  cape  was, 
Of  a  stylish  cut  the  shape  was ; 
And  the  girls,  in  all  the  town, 
Envied  Huldah  up  and  down. 

Then  at  last,  one  winter  morning, 
Hiram  came  without  a  warning. 
"  Either,"  said  he,  "  you  are  blind, 
Huldah,  or  you  've  changed  your  mindc 

"  Me  you  snub  for  trapping  varmints, 
Yet  you  take  the  skins  for  garments ; 
Since  you  wear  the  skunk  and  mink, 
There  's  no  harm  in  me,  I  think." 
[   '34] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Well,"  said  she,  "  we  will  not  quarrel, 
Hiram ;  I  accept  the  moral, 
Now  the  fashion  's  so  I  guess 
I  can't  hardly  do  no  less." 

Thus  the  trouble  all  was  over 
Of  the  love  of  Hiram  Hover. 

Thus  he  made  sweet  Huldah  Hyde 

Huldah  Hover  as  his  bride. 

Love  employs,  with  equal  favor, 

Things  of  good  and  evil  savor ; 
That  which  first  appeared  to  part, 
Warmed,  at  last,  the  maiden's  heart. 

Under  one  impartial  banner, 
Life,  the  hunter,  Love  the  tanner, 

Draw,  from  every  beast  they  snare, 

Comfort  for  a  wedded  pair ! 

Bayard  Taylor 


(  '35  .] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  MRS.   NORTON 

THE   HORSE   AND    HIS   MASTER 
{A  panegyric) 

MY  —  anything  but    beautiful,  that   standest 
"knock-knee'd"by, 
"Inverted   arch"  describes    thy    back,  as 

"  dismal  "  doth  thine  eye. 
Fret  not  —  go  roam  the  commons  now,  limp  there 

for  want  of  speed  ; 
I  dare  not  mount  on  thee  (  't  were  pain),  thou  bag 

of  bones,  indeed. 
Fret  not  with  that  too  patient  hoof,  puff  not  with 

wheezy  wind ; 
The  harder  that  thou  roarest  now  the  more  we  lag 

behind  ; 
The  stranger  "  had  "  thy  master,  brute,  for  twice 

ten  pounds,  all  told ; 

I  only  wish  he  had  thee  back  !     Too  late  —  I  'm 
sold  !  I  'm  sold  ! 

To-morrow's  sun  will  dawn  again,  but  ah  !  no  ride 

for  me. 
Can  I  gallop  over  Rotten  Row  astride  on  such  as 

thee  ? 
'Tis  evening  now,  and  getting  dark,  and  blowing 

up  for  rain ; 

[  '36] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  '11  lead  thee  then,  with  slow,  slow  steps,  to  some 
"  bait  stables  "  plain. 

(When  a  horse  dealer  cheats,  with  eyes  of  clap- 
trap truth  and  tears, 

A  hack's  form  for  an  instant  like  a  thoroughbred's 
appears.) 

And  sitting  down,  I'll  ponder  well  beside  this 
water's  brink, 

Here  —  what 's  thy  name  ?  Come,  Rosinante  ! 
Drink  pretty  ( ?)  creature,  drink  ! 

Drink  on,  inflate  thy  skin.     Away  !  this  wretched 

farce  is  o'er ; 
I  could  not  live  a  day  and  know  that  we    must 

meet  once  more. 
I  Ve  tempted  thee,  in  vain  (though  Sanger's  power 

be  strong, 
They  could  not  tempt  this  beast  to  trot),  oh,  thou 

hast  lived  too  long ! 
Who  says  that  I  '11  give  in  ?     Come  up  !  who  says 

thou  art  not  old  ? 
Thy  faults  were  faults,  poor  useless  steed,  I  fear, 

when  thou  wert  foal'd. 
Thus,  thus  I  whack  upon  thy  back ;  go,  scour  with 

might  and  main 
The  asphalt !  Ha !  who  stops  thee  now  may  have 

thee  for  his  gain. 

Philip  F.  Allen. 


[   "37  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   NEW  VERSION 

A    SOLDIER  of  the  Russians 
/-\         Lay  japanned  at  Tschrtzvkjskivitch, 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing 

And  other  comforts  which 
Might  add  to  his  last  moments 

And  smooth  the  final  way ;  — 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him 

To  hear  what  he  might  say. 
The  japanned  Russian  faltered 

As  he  took  that  comrade's  hand, 
And  he  said :  a  I  never  more  shall  see 

My  own,  my  native  land ; 
Take  a  message  and  a  token 

To  some  distant  friends  of  mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Smnlxzrskgqrxzski, 

Fair  Smnlxzrskgqrxzski  on  the  Irkztrvzkimnov." 

W.  J.  Lampton. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  POE 

WHAT   TROUBLED    POE'S   RAVEN 


Poe    walk   again    to-morrow,  heavy 
I  with  dyspeptic  sorrow, 

^*~^  While  the  darkness  seemed  to  borrow  dark- 

ness from  the  night  before, 
From  the  hollow  gloom  abysmal,  floating  downward, 

grimly  dismal, 
Like  a  pagan  curse  baptismal  from  the  bust  above 

the  door, 
He  would  hear  the  Raven  croaking  from  the  dusk 

above  the  door, 

44  Never,  never,  nevermore  !  " 

And,  too  angry  to  be  civil,  u  Raven,"  Poe  would 

cry  u  or  devil, 
Tell  me  why  you  will  persist  in  haunting  Death's 

Plutonian  shore  ?  " 
Then  would  croak  the  Raven  gladly,  "  I  will  tell 

you  why  so  sadly, 
I  so  mournfully  and  madly,  haunt  you,  taunt  you, 

o'er  and  o'er, 
Why  eternally  I  haunt  you,  daunt  you,  taunt  you, 

o'er  and  o'er  — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

44  Forty-eight  long  years  I  Ve  pondered,  forty-eight 

long  years  I  've  wondered, 

How  a  poet  ever  blundered  into  a  mistake  so  sore. 
[  '39] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


How  could  lamp-light  from  your  table  ever  in  the 

world  be  able, 
From  below,  to  throw  my  sable  shadow  c  streaming 

on  the  floor/ 
When    I    perched  up  here  on  Pallas,  high  above 

your  chamber-door  ? 

Tell  me  that  —  if  nothing  more  !  " 

Then,  like  some  wan,  weeping  willow,  Poe  would 
bend  above  his  pillow, 

Seeking  surcease  in  the  billow  where  mad  recollec- 
tions drown, 

And    in    tearful  tones   replying,  he    would    groan 
"  There 's  no  denying 

Either  I  was  blindly  lying,  or  the  world  was  upside 
down  — 

Say,   by    Joe  !  —  it    was   just    midnight  —  so    the 
world  was  upside  down  — 

Aye,  the  world  was  upside  down  ! " 

John  Bennett. 

THE   AMATEUR   FLUTE 


H1 


"EAR  the  fluter  with  his  flute, 

Silver  flute ! 

Oh,  what  a  world  of  wailing  is  awakened  by  its  toot ! 
How  it  demi-semi  quavers 

On  the  maddened  air  of  night ! 
And  defieth  all  endeavors 

To  escape  the  sound  or  sigh 
Of  the  flute,  flute,  flute, 
With  its  tootle,  tootle,  toot ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


With  reiterated  tooteling  of  exasperating  toots, 
The  long  protracted  tootelings  of  agonizing  toots 
Of  the  flute,  flute,  flute,  flute, 

Flute,  flute,  flute, 

And  the  wheezings  and  the  spittings  of  its  toots. 
Should  he  get  that  other  flute, 

Golden  flute, 

Oh,  what  a  deeper  anguish  will  his  presence  institoot ! 
How  his  eyes  to  heaven  he'll  raise, 
As  he  plays, 
All  the  days  ! 

How  he  '11  stop  us  on  our  ways 
With  its  praise  ! 

And  the  people  —  oh,  the  people, 
That  don't  live  up  in  the  steeple, 
But  inhabit  Christian  parlors 
Where  he  visiteth  and  plays, 

Where  he  plays,  plays,  plays 
In  the  cruellest  of  ways, 
And  thinks  we  ought  to  listen, 
And  expects  us  to  be  mute, 
Who  would  rather  have  the  earache 
Than  the  music  of  his  flute, 
Of  his  flute,  flute,  flute, 
And  the  tootings  of  his  toot, 

Of  the  toots  wherewith  he  tooteleth  its  agonizing 
toot, 

Of  the  flute,  flewt,  fluit,  floot, 
Phlute,  phlewt,  phlewght, 
And  the  tootle,  tootle,  tooting  of  its  toot. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


SAMUEL   BROWN 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 
In  a  dwelling  down  in  town, 
That  a  fellow  there  lived  whom  you  may  know, 
By  the  name  of  Samuel  Brown  ; 
And  this  fellow  he  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  our  house  to  come  down. 

I  was  a  child,  and  he  was  a  child, 

In  that  dwelling  down  in  town, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Samuel  Brown,  — 
With  a  love  that  the  ladies  coveted, 

Me  and  Samuel  Brown. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

To  that  dwelling  down  in  town, 
A  girl  came  out  of  her  carriage,  courting 

My  beautiful  Samuel  Brown  ; 
So  that  her  high-bred  kinsmen  came, 

And  bore  away  Samuel  Brown, 
And  shut  him  up  in  a  dwelling  house, 

In  a  street  quite  up  in  the  town. 

The  ladies  not  half  so  happy  up  there, 

Went  envying  me  and  Brown ; 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  dwelling  down  in  town), 
That  the  girl  came  out  of  the  carriage  by  night, 

Coquetting  and  getting  my  Samuel  Brown. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  our  love  is  more  artful  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  are  older  than  we, — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we,  — 
And  neither  the  girls  that  are  living  above, 

Nor  the  girls  that  are  down  in  town, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Samuel  Brown. 


For  the  morn  never  shines,  without  bringing  me 
lines, 

From  my  beautiful  Samuel  Brown  ; 
And  the  night 's  never  dark,  but  I  sit  in  the  park 

With  my  beautiful  Samuel  Brown. 
And  often  by  day,  I  walk  down  in  Broadway, 
With  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life  and  my  stay, 

To  our  dwelling  down  in  town, 

To  our  house  in  the  street  down  town. 

Pbcebe  Gary. 


THE   PROMISSORY   NOTE 

IN  the  lonesome  latter  years 
(Fatal  years  !) 
To  the  dropping  of  my  tears 
Danced  the  mad  and  mystic  spheres 
In  a  rounded,  reeling  rune, 

'Neath  the  moon, 

To  the  dripping  and  the  dropping  of  my  tears. 
[  '43  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Ah,  my  soul  is  swathed  in  gloom, 

(Ulalume  !) 

In  a  dim  Titanic  tomb, 
For  my  gaunt  and  gloomy  soul 
Ponders  o'er  the  penal  scroll, 
O'er  the  parchment  (not  a  rhyme), 
Out  of  place,  —  out  of  time,  — 
I  am  shredded,  shorn,  unshifty, 

(Oh,  the  fifty  !) 
And  the  days  have  passed,  the  three, 

Over  me ! 

And  the  debit  and  the  credit  are  as  one  to  him 
and  me ! 


'T  was  the  random  runes  I  wrote 
At  the  bottom  of  the  note, 

(Wrote  and  freely 

Gave  to  Greeley) 
In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
In  the  mellow,  moonless  night, 
When  the  stars  were  out  of  sight, 
When  my  pulses,  like  a  knell, 

(Israfel!) 

Danced  with  dim  and  dying  fays 
O'er  the  ruins  of  my  days, 
O'er  the  dimeless,  timeless  days, 
When  the  fifty,  drawn  at  thirty, 
Seeming  thrifty,  yet  the  dirty 

Lucre  of  the   market,  was  the  most  that  I  could 
raise  ! 

[   H4-  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Fiends  controlled  it, 
(Let  him  hold  it !) 

Devils  held  for  me  the  inkstand  and  the  pen ; 
Now  the  days  of  grace  are  o'er, 

(Ah,  Lenore !) 
I  am  but  as  other  men ; 
What  is  time,  time,  time, 
To  my  rare  and  runic  rhyme, 
To  my  random,  reeling  rhyme, 
By  the  sands  along  the  shore, 

Where  the  tempest  whispers,  "  Pay  him  !  "  and  I 
answer,  u  Nevermore  !  " 

Bayard  Taylor. 


THE   CANNIBAL   FLEA 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 
In  a  District  called  E.  C., 
That  a  Monster  dwelt  whom  I  came  to  know 
By  the  name  of  Cannibal  Flea, 
And  the  brute  was  possessed  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  live  —  and  to  live  on  me ! 

I  was  in  bed,  and  he  was  in  bed 

In  the  District  named  E.  C., 

When  first  in  his  thirst  so  accurst  he  burst 

Upon  me,  the  Cannibal  Flea, 

With  a  bite  that  felt  as  if  some  one  had  driven 

A  bayonet  into  me. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  this  was  the  reason  why  long  ago 

In  that  District  named  E.  C. 

I  tumbled  out  of  my  bed,  willing 

To  capture  the  Cannibal  Flea, 

Who  all  the  night  until  morning  came 

Kept  boring  into  me ! 

It  wore  me  down  to  a  skeleton 

In  the  District  hight  E.  C. 

From  that  hour  I  sought  my  bed  —  eleven  — 

Till  daylight  he  tortured  me. 

Yes  !  —  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know 

In  that  District  named  E.  C.) 

I  so  often  jumped  out  of  my  bed  by  night 

Willing  the  killing  of  Cannibal  Flea. 

But  his  hops  they  were  longer  by  far  than  the  hops 

Of  creatures  much  larger  than  he  — 

Of  parties  more  long-legged  than  he ; 

And  neither  the  powder  nor  turpentine  drops, 

Nor  the  persons  engaged  by  me, 

Were  so  clever  as  ever  to  stop  me  the  hop 

Of  the  terrible  Cannibal  Flea. 

For  at  night  with  a  scream,  I  am  waked  from  my 

dream 

By  the  terrible  Cannibal  Flea ; 
And  at  morn  I  ne'er  rise  without  bites  —  of  such 

size !  — 
From  the  terrible  Cannibal  Flea. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


So  I  'm  forced  to  decide  I  '11  no  longer  reside 

In  the    District  —  the   District  —  where    he  doth 

abide, 

The  locality  known  as  E.  C. 
That  is  postally  known  as  E.  C. 

Tom  Hood,  Jr 


ANNABEL   LEE 

*r  I  A  WAS  more  than  a  million  years  ago, 

Or  so  it  seems  to  me, 
That  I  used  to  prance  around  and  beau 
The  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
There  were  other  girls  in  the  neighborhood 
But  none  was  a  patch  to  she. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago, 

My  love  fell  out  of  a  tree, 
And  busted  herself  on  a  cruel  rock; 

A  solemn  sight  to  see, 
For  it  spoiled  the  hat  and  gown  and  looks 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

We  loved  with  a  love  that  was  lovely  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee, 
And  we  went  one  day  to  gather  the  nuts 

That  men  call  hickoree. 
And  I  stayed  below  in  the  rosy  glow 

While  she  shinned  up  the  tree, 
But  no  sooner  up  than  down  kerslup 

Came  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
[  147] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  the  pallid  moon  and  the  hectic  noon 

Bring  gleams  of  dreams  for  me, 
Of  the  desolate  and  desperate  fate 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
And  I  often  think  as  I  sink  on  the  brink 
Of  slumber's  sea,  of  the  warm  pink  link 

That  bound  my  soul  to  Annabel  Lee; 
And  it  was  n't  just  best  for  her  interest 

To  climb  that  hickory  tree, 
For  had  she  stayed  below  with  me, 

We'd  had  no  hickory  nuts  maybe, 
But  I  should  have  had  my  Annabel  Lee. 

Stanley  Hunt/ey. 


THE    BELLS 

HEAR    a  voice  announcing    IRVING  in   The 
Bells  — sledge's  bells! 
What  a  scene  of  wild  excitement  the  adver- 
tisement foretells  ! 
See  the  rush  upon  the  pay-hole  — 
People  stand  a  night  and  day  whole 
To  secure  a  little  corner  for  The  Bells  ! 
To  look  ghastly  pale  and   shudder,  every  man  and 

"  every  brudder  " 
Feels  that  nothing   can  be  equal  to    The 

Bells ! 

Bells!  Bells!  Bells!  Bells! 
Too  horrified  to  cheer, 
Folk  will  testify  by  fear 

• 


A    Parody    Anthology 


How  appalled  they  are    by  IRVING    in  The 

Bells  ; 
While  great  beads  of  perspiration    will 

appear, 
For  in  conscience-stricken  terrors  he  excels  ! 

Gloomy  Bells  ! 
Pit  and  gallery  will  glory  in  the  weird  and  frightful 

story, 

Which  may  even  thrill  the  bosom  of  the  swells, 
For  every  Yankee  "  dude  " 
Unquestionably  should 

Have  nightmare  after  witnessing  The  Bells  ! 
Will    our    cousins    all  go  frantic   from  Pacific  to 

Atlantic,  or  condemn  as  childish  antic 
IRVING'S  dancing,  and    his    gasping,  and  his 

yells  ! 

There 's  a  certain   admiration  which  the    strange 
impersonation 

Still  compels, 
E'en   from   those   who    can't   see   beauty   in   The 

Bells  — 

In  the  play  that  MR.  LEWIS  calls  The  Bells ! 

Wondrous  Bells  ! 
You  first  made  Henry   famous,  so  the  stage 

historian  tells. 
Will  the  scene  be  now  repeated  which  in  London 

always  greeted 

His  performance  of  Mathias  in  The  Bells  ? 
Or  will  every  sneering  Yankee, 
In  his  nasal  tones,  say  "  Thankee, 
I  guess  this  is  just   another  of  your  mighty 
British  <  sells  '  "  ? 
[  H9  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Let  the  thought  for  ever  perish,  that  the  actor  whom 

we  cherish 

Could  fail  to  lick  creation  in  The  Bells ! 
But  if  there  are  detractors 
Of  this  foremost  of  our  actors, 
Of  the  gentlemanly  IRVING  —  friend  of  Toole's  — 
"They    are    neither    man    nor    woman,  they    are 
neither  brute  nor  human," 

They  are  fools ! 

Judy. 


THE  GOBLIN   GOOSE 

ONCE   it    happened  I  'd  been  dining,  on  my 
couch.  I  slept  reclining, 
And  awoke  with  moonlight  shining  brightly 
on  my  bedroom  floor, 
It  was  in  the  bleak  December,  Christmas  night  as 

I  remember, 
But  I  had  no  dying  ember,  as  Poe  had,  when  near 

the  door, 

Like  a  gastronomic  goblin  just  beside  my  chamber 
door 

Stood  a  bird,  —  and  nothing  more. 

And  I  said,  for  I  'm  no  craven,  "  Are  you  Edgar's 

famous  raven, 
Seeking  as  with  him  a  haven  —  were  you  mixed  up 

with  Lenore  ? " 
Then  the  bird  uprose  and  fluttered,  and  this  sentence 

strange  he  uttered, 

[  'So] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Hang  Lenore,"  he  mildly  muttered  ;  "  you  have 

seen  me  once  before, 
Seen  me  on  this  festive  Christmas,  seen  me  surely 

once  before, 

I  'm  the  Goose  — -  and  nothing  more." 


Tnen  he  murmured,  "  Are  you  ready  ?  "  and  with 
motion  slow  and  steady, 

Straight  he  leapt  upon  my  bed ;  he  simply  gave  a 
stifled  roar ; 

And  I  cried, "  As  I  'm  a  sinner,  at  a  Goose-Club  I 
was  winner, 

'T  is  a  memory  of  my  dinner,  which  I  ate  at  half- 
past  four, 

Goose  well-stuffed  with  sage  and  onions,  which  I 
ate  at  half-past  four." 

Quoth  he  hoarsely,  "Eat  no  more !  " 


Said  I,  "  I  've  enjoyed  your  juices,  breast  and  back  ; 

but  tell  me,  Goose,  is 
This  revenge,  and  what  the  use  is  of  your  being 

such  a  bore  ? 
For  Goose-flesh  I  will  no   more  ax,  if  you  '11  not 

sit  on  my  thorax, 
Go  try  honey  mixed  with   borax,  for  I  hear  your 

throat  is  sore, 
You  speak  gruffly,   though   too  plainly,  and  I  'm 

sure  your  throat  is  sore." 

Quoth  the  nightmare,  "  Eat  no  more  !  " 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Goose  !  "  I  shrieked  out,  "  leave,  oh,  leave  me, 
surely  you  don't  mean  to  grieve  me, 

You  are  heavy,  pray  reprieve  me,  now  my  penance 
must  be  o'er; 

Though  to-night  you  've  brought  me  sorrow,  com- 
fort surely  comes  to-morrow, 

Some  relief  from  those  I  'd  borrow  at  my  doctor's 
ample  store." 

Quoth  the  goblin, "  Eat  no  more  !  " 

And  that  fat  Goose,  never  flitting,  like  a  night- 
mare still  is  sitting 

With  me  all  the  night  emitting  words  that  thrill  my 
bosom's  core, 

Now  throughout  the  Christmas  season,  while  I  lie 
and  gasp  and  wheeze,  on 

Me  he   sits    until   my   reason  nothing  surely  can 
restore, 

While  that  Goose  says,  "  Eat  no  more  !  " 

Punch. 


(  '5*1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


\ 
AFTER  LORD   HOUGHTON 

LOVE   AND   SCIENCE 

(The  Sphygmophon  is  an  apparatus  connected  with 
the  telephone,  by  the  help  of  which  the  movements  of  the 
pulse  and  heart  may  be  rendered  audible) 

I  WANDERED  by  the  brookside, 
I  wandered  by  the  mill ; 
The  Sphygmophon  was  fixed  there, 

Its  wires  ran  past  the  hill. 
I  heeded  not  the  grasshopper, 

Nor  chirp  of  any  bird, 
For  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

To  test  his  apparatus, 

One  end  I  closely  press'd, 
The  other  at  a  distance, 

I  hoped  was  next  his  chest. 
I  listened  for  his  footfall, 

I  listened  for  his  word, 
Still  the  bumping  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  no  he  came  not, 

The  night  came  on  alone ; 
And  thinking  he  had  tricked  me, 

I  loosed  the  Sphygmophon. 
L  '53  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  evening  air  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred, 
When  — the  thumping  of  his  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

With  joy  I  grasped  the  magnet, 

When  some  one  stood  behind, 
His  hand  was  on  my  shoulder 

(But  that  I  did  not  mind). 
Each  spoke  then  —  nearer —  nearer, 

We  shouted  every  word ; 
But  the  booming  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

Anonymous 


f  '54] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  TENNYSON 


THE   BATHER'S   DIRGE 


\ 


BREAK,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold,  hard  stones,  O  sea ! 
And  I  hope  that  my  tongue  won't  utter 
The  curses  that  rise  in  me. 

Oh,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

If  he  likes  to  be  soused  with  the  spray ! 

Oh,  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

As  he  paddles  about  in  the  bay ! 

And  the  ships  swim  happily  on, 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  a  clutch  of  that  vanished  hand, 

And  a  kick  —  for  I  'm  catching  a  chill ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  my  poor  bare  feet,  O  sea ! 
But  the  artful  scamp  who  has  collar'd  my  clothes 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Tennyson  Minor. 


C'55] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


LITTLE   MISS   MUFFET 
(Reset  as  an  'Arthurian  Idyl) 

UPON  a  tuffet  of  most  soft  and  verdant  moss, 
Beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  an  ancient 
oak, 

Miss  Muffet  sat,  and  upward  gazed, 
To  where  a  linnet  perched  and  sung, 
And  rocked  him  gently,  to  and  fro. 
Soft  blew  the  breeze 
And  mildly  swayed  the  bough, 
Loud  sung  the  bird, 
And  sweetly  dreamed  the  maid ; 
Dreamed  brightly  of  the  days  to  come  — 
The  golden  days,  with  her  fair  future  blent. 
When  one  —  some  wondrous  stately  knight  — 
Of  our  great  Arthur's  "  Table  Round  ;  " 
One,  brave  as  Launcelot,  and 
Spotless  as  the  pure  Sir  Galahad, 
Should  come,  and  coming,  choose  her 
For  his  love,  and  in  her  name, 
And  for  the  sake  of  her  fair  eyes, 
Should  do  most  knightly  deeds. 
And  as  she  dreamed  and  softly  sighed, 
She  pensively  began  to  stir, 
With  a  tiny  golden  spoon 
Within  an  antique  dish  upon  her  lap, 
Some  snow-white  milky  curds ; 
Soft  were  they,  full  of  cream  and  rich, 
And  floated  in  translucent  whey ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  as  she  stirred,  she  smiled, 

Then  gently  tasted  them. 

And  smiling,  ate,  nor  sighed  no  more. 

Lo  f  as  she  ate  —  nor  harbored  thought  of  ill  — 

Near  and  nearer  yet,  there  to  her  crept, 

A  monster  great  and  terrible, 

With  huge,  misshapen  body  —  leaden  eyes  — 

Full  many  a  long  and  hairy  leg, 

And  soft  and  stealthy  footstep. 

Nearer  still  he  came  —  Miss  Muffet  yet, 

All  unwitting  his  dread  neighborhood, 

Did  eat  her  curds  and  dream. 

Blithe,  on  the  bough,  the  linnet  sung  — 

All  terrestrial  natures,  sleeping,  wrapt 

In  a  most  sweet  tranquillity. 

Closer  still  the  spider  drew,  and  — 

Paused  beside  her  —  lifted  up  his  head 

And  gazed  into  her  face. 

Miss  Muffet  then,  her  consciousness  alive 

To  his  dread  eyes  upon  her  fixed, 

Turned  and  beheld  him. 

Loud  screamed  she,  frightened  and  amazed, 

And  straightway  sprung  upon  her  feet, 

And,  letting  fall  her  dish  and  spoon, 

She  —  shrieking  —  turned  and  fled. 

Anonymous, 


[  '57) 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   MUSICAL   PITCH 

BREAK,  break,  break, 
O  voice  !  —  let  me  urge  thy  plea  ! 
Oh,  lower  the  Pitch,  lest  utter 
Despair  be  the  end  of  me  ! 

'T  is  well  for  the  fiddles  to  squeak, 
The  bassoon  to  grunt  in  its  play ; 

JT  were  well  had  I  lungs  of  brass, 

Or  that  nothing  but  strings  give  way  ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

O  voice !   I  must  urge  thy  plea, 
For  the  tender  skin  of  my  larynx  is  torn, 

And  I  fail  in  my  upper  G ! 

Anonymous. 


TO   AN   IMPORTUNATE    HOST 

{During  dinner  and  after  Tennyson*) 

ASK  me  no  more  :   I  Jve  had  enough  Chablis  ; 
The  wine  may  come  again  and    take    the 
shape 
From    glass    to    glass    of  u  Mountain "   or    of 

«  Cape," 

But  my  dear  boy,  when  I  have  answered  thee, 
Ask  me  no  more. 

[  '58] 


A    P  arody    Antholog-y 


Ask  me  no  more :  what  answer  should  I  give, 
I  love  not  pickled  pork,  nor  partridge  pie ; 
I  feel  if  I  took  whiskey  I  should  die  ! 

Ask  me  no  more  —  for  I  prefer  to  live : 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more :   unless  my  fate  is  sealed, 
And  I  have  striven  against  you  all  in  vain. 
Let  your  good  butler  bring  me  u  Hock  "  again  \ 
Then  rest,  dear  boy.     If  for  this  once  I  yield, 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Anonymous. 


THE   VILLAGE   CHOIR 

HALF  a  bar,  half  a  bar, 
Half  a  bar  onward  ! 
Into  an  awful  ditch 
Choir  and  precentor  hitch, 
Into  a  mess  of  pitch, 

They  led  the  Old  Hundred. 
Trebles  to  right  of  them, 
Tenors  to  left  of  them, 
Basses  in  front  of  them, 

Bellowed  and  thundered. 
Oh,  that  precentor's  look, 
When  the  sopranos  took 
Their  own  time  and  hook 

From  the  Old  Hundred  ! 

Screeched  all  the  trebles  here, 
Boggled  the  tenors  there, 
[    '59] 


\ 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Raising  the  parson's  hair, 

While  his  mind  wandered ; 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why 

This  psalm  was  pitched  too  high: 

Theirs  but  to  gasp  and  cry 
Out  the  Old  Hundred. 

Trebles  to  right  of  them, 

Tenors  to  left  of  them, 

Basses  in  front  of  them, 

Bellowed  and  thundered. 

Stormed  they  with  shout  and  yell, 

Not  wise  they  sang  nor  well, 

Drowning  the  sexton's  bell, 

While  all  the  church  wondered. 

Dire  the  precentor's  glare, 
Flashed  his  pitchfork  in  air 
Sounding  fresh  keys  to  bear 

Out  the  Old  Hundred. 
Swiftly  he  turned  his  back, 
Reached  he  his  hat  from  rack, 
Then  from  the  screaming  pack, 

Himself  he  sundered. 
Tenors  to  right  of  him, 
Tenors  to  left  of  him, 
Discords  behind  him, 

Bellowed  and  thundered. 
Oh,  the  wild  howls  they  wrought : 
Right  to  the  end  they  fought ! 
Some  tune  they  sang,  but  not, 

Not  the  Old  Hundred. 

Anonymous 

( .60  j 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   BITER   BIT 

THE  sun  is  in  the  sky,  mother,  the  flowers 
are  springing  fair; 
And  the  melody  of  woodland  birds  is  stirring 
in  the  air; 
The  river,  smiling  to  the  sky,  glides  onward  to  the 

sea, 

And    happiness    is    everywhere,    oh,   mother,    but 
with  me  ! 


They  are  going  to  the  church,  mother  —  I  hear 

the  marriage  bell 
It  booms  along  the  upland  —  Oh  !  it  haunts  me 

like  a  knell ; 
He  leads  her  on  his  arm,  mother,  he  cheers  her 

faltering  step, 
And  closely  to  his  side  she  clings — she  does,  the 

demirep  ! 


They  are  crossing  by  the  stile,  mother,  where  we 

so  oft  have  stood, 
The  stile  beside  the  shady  thorn,  at  the  corner  of 

the  wood ; 
And  the  boughs,  that  wont  to  murmur  back  the 

words  that  won  my  ear, 
Wave  their  silver  branches  o'er  him,  as  he  leads 

his  bridal  fere. 

[ii]  [  161  1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


He  will  pass  beside  the  stream,  mother,  where  first 
my  hand  he  pressed, 

By  the  meadow  where,  with  quivering  lip,  his 
passion  he  confessed  ; 

And  down  the  hedgerows  where  we've  strayed 
again  and  yet  again ; 

But  he  will  not  think  of  me,  mother,  his  broken- 
hearted Jane ! 

He  said  that  I  was  proud,  mother,  that  I  looked 

for  rank  and  gold, 
He  said  I  did  .not  love  him  —  he  said  my  words 

were  cold  ; 
He  said  I  kept  him  off  and  on,  in  hopes  of  higher 

game  — 
And  it  may  be   that   I   did,  mother;  who  hasn't 

done  the  same  ? 

I  did  not  know  my  heart,  mother  —  I  know  it  now 

too  late  ; 
I  thought  that  I  without  a  pang  could  wed  some 

nobler  mate  ; 
But  no    nobler    suitor  sought    me  —  and    he    has 

taken  wing, 
And  my  heart  is  gone,  and  I  am  left  a  lone  and 

blighted  thing. 

You  may  lay  me  in  my  bed,  mother —  my  head  is 

throbbing  sore; 
And,  mother,  prithee,  let  the  sheets  be  duly  aired 

before  ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And,  if  you  'd  please,  my  mother  dear,  your  poor 

desponding  child, 
Draw  me  a  pot  of  beer,  mother,  and  mother,  draw 

it  mild ! 

William  Ajtoun. 


THE   LAUREATE 

WHO  would  not  be 
The  Laureate  bold, 
With  his  butt  of  sherry 
To  keep  him  merry, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  to  pocket  his  gold  T 

*T  is  I  would  be  the  Laureate  bold  ! 

When  the  days  are  hot,  and  the  sun  is  strong, 

I  'd  lounge  in  the  gateway  all  the  day  long 

With  her  Majesty's  footmen  in  crimson  and  gold. 

I  'd  care  not  a  pin  for  the  waiting-lord, 

But  I  'd  lie  on  my  back  on  the  smooth  greensward 

With  a  straw  in  my  mouth,  and  an  open  vest, 

And  the  cool  wind  blowing  upon  my  breast, 

And  I  'd  vacantly  stare  at  the  clear  blue  sky, 

And  watch  the  clouds  that  are  listless  as  I, 

Lazily,  lazily  ! 

,'xnd  I  'd  pick  the  moss  and  the  daisies  white, 
And  chew  their  stalks  with  a  nibbling  bite; 
And  I  'd  let  my  fancies  roam  abroad 
In  search  of  a  hint  for  a  birthday  ode, 

Crazily,  crazily  ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Oh,  that  would  be  the  life  for  me, 

With  plenty  to  get  and  nothing  to  do, 

But  to  deck  a  pet  poodle  with  ribbons  of  blue, 

And  whistle  all  day  to  the  Queen's  cockatoo, 

Trance-somely,  trance-somely  ! 
Then  the  chambermaids,  that  clean  the  rooms, 
Would  come  to  the  windows  and    rest  on   theii 
brooms, 

With  their  saucy  caps  and  their  crisped  hair, 
And  they  'd  toss  their  heads  in  the  fragrant  air. 
And  say  to  each  other  —  "  Just  look  down  there, 
At  the  nice  young  man,  so  tidy  and  small, 
Who  is  paid  for  writing  on  nothing  at  all, 
Handsomely,  handsomely  ! 

They  would    pelt    me    with    matches    and    sweet 

pastilles, 

And  crumpled-up  balls  of  the  royal  bills, 
Giggling  and  laughing,  and  screaming  with  fun, 
As  they  M  see  me  start,  with  a  leap  and  a  run, 
From  the  broad  of  my  back  to  the  points  of  my 

toes, 

When  a  pellet  of  paper  hit  my  nose, 
Teasingly,  sneezingly  ! 

Then  I  'd  fling  them  bunches  of  garden  flowers, 
And  hyacinths  plucked  from  the  Castle  bowers ; 
And  I  'd  challenge  them  all  to  come  down  to  me, 
And  I  'd  kiss  them  all  till  they  kissed  me, 
Laughingly,  laughingly. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Oh,  would  not  that  be  a  merry  life, 
Apart  from  care  and  apart  from  strife, 
With  the  Laureate's  wine,  and  the  Laureate's  pay, 
And  no  deductions  at  quarter-day? 
Oh,  that  would  be  the  post  for  me ! 
With  plenty  to  get  and  nothing  to  do, 
But  to  deck  a  pet  poodle  with  ribbons  of  blue, 
And  whistle  a  tune  to  the  Queen's  cockatoo, 
And  scribble  of  verses  remarkably  few, 
And  empty  at  evening  a  bottle  or  two, 
Quaffingly,  quaffingly  ! 

'T  is  I  would  be 
The  Laureate  bold, 
With  my  butt  of  sherry 
To  keep  me  merry, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  to  pocket  my  gold  ! 

William  Aytoun* 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   LOVELORN 

COMRADES,  you  may  pass  the  rosy.     With 
permission  of  the  chair, 
I  shall  leave  you  for  a  little,  for  I  'd  like  to 
take  the  air. 

Whether  't  was  the  sauce  at  dinner,  or  that  glass 

of  ginger-beer, 
Or  these  strong  cheroots,  I  know  not,  but  I  feel  a 

little  queer. 

r  i6S] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Let  me  go.     Nay,  Chuckster,  blow  me,  'pon  my 

soul,  this  is  too  bad  ! 
When  you  want  me,  ask  the  waiter;   he  knows 

where  I  'm  to  be  had. 

Whew  !     This  is  a  great  relief  now  !     Let  me  but 

undo  my  stock ; 
Resting    here  beneath  the  porch,  my  nerves  will 

steady  like  a  rock. 

In  my  ears  I  hear  the  singing  of  a  lot  of  favorite 

tunes  — 
Bless    my    heart,    how    very    odd !     Why    surely 

there  's  a  brace  of  moons  ! 


See  !  the  stars  !  how  bright  they  twinkle,  winking 

with  a  frosty  glare, 
Like  my  faithless  cousin  Amy  when  she  drove  me 

to  despair. 

Oh,  my  cousin,  spider-hearted  !     Oh,  my  Amy  ' 

No,  confound  it, 
I  must  wear  the  mournful  willow,  —  all  around  my 

heart  I  've  bound  it ! 


Falser  than  the  bank  of  fancy,  frailer  than  a  shin- 
ing glove, 

Puppet  to  a  father's  anger,  minion  to  a  nabob's 
love ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?      Having  known 

me,  could  you  ever 
Stoop  to  marry  half  a  heart,  and  a  little  more  than 

half  a  liver  ? 


Happy  !     Damme  !    Thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level 

day  by  day, 
Changing  from  the  best  of  china  to  the  commonest 

of  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is,  —  he  is  stomach- 
plagued  and  old ; 

And  his  curry  soups  will  make  thy  cheek  the  color 
of  his  gold. 

When  his  feeble  love  is  sated,  he  will  hold  thee 

surely  then 
Something    lower   than    his    hookah,  —  something 

less  than  his  cayenne. 

What  is  this  ?     His  eyes  are  pinky.     Was  't  the 

claret  ?     Oh,  no,  no,  — 
Bless   your    soul !    it   was    the    salmon,  —  salmon 

always  makes  him  so. 

Take  him    to  thy  dainty  chamber — soothe    him 

with  thy  lightest  fancies  ; 
He  will  understand   thee,  won't    he  ?  —  pay  thee 

with  a  lover's  glances  ? 

t  ,67  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Louder  than  the  loudest  trumpet,  harsh  as  harshest 

ophicleide, 
Nasal  respirations  answer  the  endearments  of  his 

bride. 


Sweet  repose,  delightful  music  !     Gaze  upon  thy 

noble  charge, 
Till   the  spirit  fill   thy  bosom    that    inspired   the 

meek  Laffarge. 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  —  better,  better 

that  I  stood, 
Looking  on  thy  murdered  body,  like  the  injured 

Daniel  Good ! 


Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  cold  and  timber- 
stiff  and  dead, 

With  a  pan  of  burning  charcoal  underneath  oizr 
nuptial  bed ! 

Cursed  be  the  Bank  of  England's  notes,  that  tempt 

the  soul  to  sin  ! 
Cursed  be  the  wants  of  acres,  —  doubly  cursed  the 

want  of  tin ! 


Cursed  be  the  marriage-contract,  that  enslaved  thy 

soul  to  greed ! 
Cursed    be  the  sallow  lawyer   that    prepared   and 

drew  the  deed  ! 

[  -68] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Cursed  be  his  foul  apprentice,  who  the  loathsome 

fees  did  earn  !  k 

Cursed  be  the  clerk  and  parson,  —  cursed  be  the 

whole  concern ! 

Oh,  't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster,  —  much  I  'm 

like  to  make  of  that ; 
Better    comfort    have    I    found    in    singing    "  All 

Around  my  Hat." 

But  that  song,  so  wildly  plaintive,  palls  upon  my 

British  ears. 
'T  will  not  do  to  pine  for  ever,  —  I  am  getting  up 

in  years. 

Can't  I  turn  the  honest  penny,  scribbling  for  the 

weekly  press, 
And  in  writing  Sunday  libels  drown    my  private 

wretchedness  ? 


Oh,  to  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  in  manhood's 

dawn  I  knew, 
When  my  days  were  all  before  me,  and  my  years 

were  twenty-two  ! 

When  I  smoked  my  independent  pipe  along  the 

Quadrant  wide, 
With  the  many  larks  of  London  flaring  up  on  every 

sidej 

[  169] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


When  I  went  the  pace  so  wildly,  caring  little  what 

might  come; 
Coffee-milling  care  and  sorrow  with  a  nose-adapted 

thumb ; 


Felt  the  exquisite  enjoyment,  tossing  nightly  off, 

oh,  heavens  ! 
Brandies  at  the  Cider  Cellars,  kidneys  smoking  hot 

at  Evans' ! 


Or  in  the  Adelphi  sitting,  half  in  rapture,  half  in 

tears, 
Saw  the  glorious  melodrama  conjure  up  the  shades 

of  years ! 

Saw  Jack  Sheppard,  noble  stripling,  act  his  won- 
drous feats  again, 

Snapping  Newgate's  bars  of  iron,  like  an  infant's 
daisy  chain. 

Might  was  right,  and  all    the  terrors,  which  had 

held  the  world  in  awe, 
Were  despised,  and  priggings  prospered,  spite  of 

Laurie,  spite  of  law. 

In  such  scenes  as  these  I  triumphed,  ere  my  pas- 
sion's edge  was  rusted, 

And  my  cousin's  cold  refusal  left  me  very  much 
disgusted ! 

[  170] 


A  Parody    Anthology 


Since,  my  heart  is  sere  and  withered,  and  I  do  not 

care  a  curse 
Whether  worse  shall  be  the  better,  or  the  better  be 

the  worse. 


Hark !  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  bawling  for 

another  jorum ; 
They  would  mock  me  in  derision,  should  I  thus 

appear  before  'em. 

Womankind  shall  no  more  vex  me,  such  at  least  as 

go  arrayed 
In  the  most  expensive  satins  and  the  newest  silk 

brocade. 


I  '11  to  Afric,  lion-haunted,  where  the  giant  forest 

yields 
Rarer  robes  and  finer  tissue  than  are  sold  at  Spital- 

fields. 


Or  to  burst  all  chains  of  habit,  flinging  habit's  self 
aside 

I  shall  walk  the  tangled  jungle  in  mankind's  pri- 
meval pride  j 

Feeding  on  the  luscious  berries  and  the  rich 
cassava  root, 

Lots  of  dates  and  lots  of  guavas,  clusters  of  for- 
bidden fruit. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Never    comes   the  trader   thither,  never  o'er   the 

purple  main 
Sounds  the  oath  of  British  commerce,  or  the  accent 

of  Cockaigne. 

There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment,  where  no 

envious  rule  prevents ; 
Sink  the  Steamboats  !    cuss  the  railways !  rot,  oh, 

rot  the  Three  per  Cents ! 

There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,  shall  have 

space  to  breathe,  my  cousin  ! 
I  will  wed  some  savage  woman  —  nay,  I  '11  wed  at 

least  a  dozen. 


There  I  '11  rear  my  young  mulattoes,  as  no  Bond 

Street  brats  are  reared ; 
They  shall  dive  for  alligators,  catch  the  wild  goats 

by  the  beard  — 

Whistle  to  the  cockatoos,  and  mock  the  hairy- 
faced  baboon, 

Worship  mighty  Mumbo  Jumbo  in  the  Mountains 
of  the  Moon. 


I  myself,  in   far  Timbuctoo,  leopard's  blood  will 

daily  quaff, 
Ride  a  tiger-hunting,  mounted  on  a  thorough-bred 

giraffe, 

[  '72] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Fiercely  shall    I    shout    the  war-whoop,  as    some 

sullen  stream  he  crosses, 
Startling  from  their  noonday  slumbers  iron-bound 

rhinoceroses. 


Fool !  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !      But  I  know 

my  words  are  mad, 
For   I    hold    the    gray  barbarian  lower   than    the 

Christian  cad. 


I  the  swell  —  the    city  dandy!     I   to    seek    such 

horrid  places,  — 
I  to  haunt  with  s.qualid  negroes,  blubber-lips,  and 

monkey-faces. 

I  to  wed  with  Coromantees  !     I,  who  managed  — 

very  near  — 
To    secure   the  heart  and  fortune  of  the  widow 

Shillibeer! 


Stuff  and  nonsense !  let  me  never  fling  a  single 
chance  away ; 

Maids  ere  now,  I  know,  have  loved  me,  and  an- 
other maiden  may. 

Morning  Post  (The  Times  won't  trust  me)  help  me, 
as  I  know  you  can ; 

I  will  pen  an  advertisement,  —  that  Va  never  fail- 
ing plan. 

C   '73  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Wanted  —  by  a  bard,  in  wedlock,  some  young 

interesting  woman ; 
Looks  are  not  so  much  an  object,  if  the  shiners  be 

forthcoming ! 

"  Hymen's  chains  the  advertiser  vows  shall  be  but 

silken  fetters ; 
Please  address  to  A.  T.,  Chelsea.     N.  B.  —  You 

must  pay  the  letters." 

That 's  the  sort  of  thing  to  do  it.     Now  I  '11  go 

and  taste  the  balmy,  — 
Rest    thee  with  thy  yellow  nabob,  spider-hearted 

Cousin  Amy ! 

William  Aytoun. 


IN   IMMEMORIAM 

WE  seek  to  know,  and  knowing  seek ; 
We  seek,  we  know,  and  every  sense 
Is  trembling  with  the  great  Intense 
And  vibrating  to  what  we  speak. 

We  ask  too  much,  we  seek  too  oft, 
We  know  enough,  and  should  no  more; 
And  yet  \ve  skim  through  Fancy's  lore 
And  look  to  earth  and  not  aloft. 
[  '74] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A  something  comes  from  out  the  gloom ; 

I  know  it  not,  nor  seek  to  know ; 

I  only  see  it  swell  and  grow, 

And  more  than  this  world  would  presume. 

Meseems,  a  circling  void  I  fill, 
And  I,  unchanged  where  all  is  changed; 
It  seems  unreal ;  I  own  it  strange, 
Yet  nurse  the  thoughts  I  cannot  kill. 

I  hear  the  ocean's  surging  tide, 
Raise  quiring  on  its  carol-tune; 
I  watch  the  golden-sickled  moon, 
And  clearer  voices  call  besides. 

O  Sea  !  whose  ancient  ripples  lie 
On  red-ribbed  sands  where  seaweeds  shone; 
O  Moon  !  whose  golden  sickle  's  gone ; 
O  Voices  all !  like  ye  I  die  ! 

Cuthbert  Bede 


SIR  EGGNOGG 

FORTH  from  the  purple  battlements  he  fared, 
Sir  Eggnogg  of  the  Rampant  Lily,  named 
From  that  embrasure  of  his  argent  shield 
Given  by  a  thousand  leagues  of  heraldry 
On  snuffy  parchments  drawn.     So  forth  he  fared, 
By  bosky  boles  and  autumn  leaves  he  fared, 
[  '75  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Where  grew  the  juniper  with  berries  black, 

The  sphery  mansions  of  the  future  gin. 

But  naught  of  this  decoyed  his  mind,  so  bent 

On  fair  Miasma,  Saxon-blooded  girl, 

Who  laughed  his  loving  lullabies  to  scorn, 

And  would  have  snatched  his  hero-sword  to  deck 

Her  haughty  brow,  or  warm  her  hands  withal, 

So  scornful  she;  and  thence  Sir  Eggnogg  cursed 

Between  his  teeth,  and  chewed  his  iron  boots 

In  spleen  of  love.     But  ere  the  morn  was  high 

In  the  robustious  heaven,  the  postern-tower 

Clang  to  the  harsh,  discordant,  slivering  scream 

Of  the  tire-woman,  at  the  window  bent 

To  dress  her  crisped  hair.     She  saw,  ah,  woe ! 

The  fair  Miasma,  overbalanced,  hurled 

O'er  the  flamboyant  parapet  which  ridged 

The  muffled  coping  of  the  castle's  peak, 

Prone  on  the  ivory  pavement  of  the  court, 

Which  caught  and  cleft  her  fairest  skull,  and  sent 

Her  rosy  brains  to  fleck  the  Orient  floor. 

This  saw  Sir  Eggnogg,  in  his  stirrups  poised. 

Saw  he  and  cursed,  with  many  a  deep-mouthed  oath, 

And,  finding  nothing  more  could  reunite 

.The  splintered  form  of  fair  Miasma,  rode 

On  his  careering  palfrey  to  the  wars, 

And  there  found  death,  another  death  than  hers. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


[  176  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


GODIVA 

"  T  WAITED  for  the  Train  at  Coventry," 

The  Train  was  several  hundred  years  too  late 
(It  had  not  been  invented  yet,  you  see) ; 
Such  is  the  Cold  Cast  Irony  of  Fate. 
At  last  the  Train  arrived,  and  with  it  too 
Your  Book  —  a  Precious  Package  marked  "collect." 
Raptured  I  read  it  through  and  through,  and  through, 
And  then  I  paused  in  sadness  to  reflect  — 
How  that  same  Book  had  been  a  priceless  boon, 
But  for  a  little  accident  of  Date ; 
If  only  I  had  not  been  born  so  soon, 
Or  if  you  had  not  gone  to  press  so  late. 
O  Book,  if  only  you  had  come  to  me 
Ere  I  rode  forth  upon  that  morning  sad !  • 
In  naught  but  Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity,      / 
And  other  Vague  Abstractions  thinly  clad ;   ^/ 
In  whole  Editions  I  would  have  invested 
(I  hope  you  get  good  Royalties  therefrom), 
To  keep  the  naughty  townfolk  interested 
And  most  Particularly,  Peeping  Tom. 

Oliver  Herford, 


[177] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A   LAUREATE'S   LOG 

(Rough-weather  notes  from  the  New  Birthday-Book) 

MONDAY 

IF  you  're  waking,  please  don't  call  me,  please 
don't  call  me,  Currie  dear, 
For  they  tell  me  that  to-morrow  toward  the 
open  we  're  to  steer  ! 
No  doubt,  for  you  and  those  aloft,  the    maddest 

merriest  way,  — 

But  I  always  feel  best  in  a  bay,  Currie, 
I  always  feel  best  in  a  bay. 

TUESDAY 

Take,  take,  take  ? 
What  will  I  take  for  tea  ? 
The  thinnest  slice  —  no  butter, 
And  that 's  quite  enough  for  me. 

WEDNESDAY 

It  is  the  little  roll  within  the  berth 

That,  by  and  by,  will  put  an  end  to  mirth, 

And,  never  ceasing,  slowly  prostrate  all. 

THURSDAY 

Let  me  alone  !     What  pleasure  can  you  have 
In  chaffing  evil  ?     Tell  me  what 's  the  fun 
Of  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
[  '78  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


: 

All  you,  the  rest,  you  know  how  to  behave 
In  roughish  weather  !     I,  for  one 
Ask  for  the  shore  —  or  death,  dark  death,  — 
I  am  so  done. 

FRIDAY 

Twelve  knots  an  hour  !     But  what  am  I  ? 
A  poet  with  no  land  in  sight,     * 
Insisting  that  he  feels  "  all  right," 

With  half  a  smile  and  half  a  sigh. 

SATURDAY 

Comfort  ?     Comfort    scorned   of  lubbers !     Hear 

this  truth  the  Poet  roar, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrows  is  remembering 

days  on  shore. 
Drug  his  soda  lest  he  learn  it  when  the  foreland 

gleams  a  speck 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  he  can't  sit  up 

on  deck ! 

SUNDAY 

Ah  !  you  've  called  me  nice   and  early,  nice   and 

early,  Currie  dear ! 
What  ?     Really  in  ?     Well,  come,  the  news  I  'm 

precious  glad  to  hear; 
For   though    in    such  good    company  I  willingly 

would  stay  — 

I  'm  glad  to  be  back  in  the  bay,  Currie, 
I  'm  glad  to  be  back  in  the  bay. 

Puncb. 
[  '79  j 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   RECOGNITION 

HOME  they  brought  her  sailor  son, 
Grown  a  man  across  the  sea, 
Tall  and  broad  and  black  of  beard, 
And  hoarse  of  voice  as  man  may  be. 

Hand  to  shake  and  mouth  to  kiss, 

Both  he  offered  ere  he  spoke ; 
But  she  said  —  "  What  man  is  this 

Comes  to  play  a  sorry  joke  ?  " 

Then  they  praised  him  —  calPd  him  "  smart,'* 

"  Tightest  lad  that  ever  stept ;  " 
But  her  son  she  did  not  know, 

And  she  neither  smiled  nor  wept. 

Rose,  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  a  pigeon-pie  in  sight ; 
She  saw  him  eat  —  "  'T  is  he  !  't  is  he  !  " 

She  knew  him  —  by  his  appetite ! 

William  Sawyer. 


THE   HIGHER   PANTHEISM   IN   A 
NUTSHELL 


0 


NE,  who  is  not,  we  see :  but  one,  whom  we 

see  not,  is  i 

Surely  this  is  not  that :  but  that  is  assuredly 
this. 

[  '*>] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


What,  and  wherefore,  and  whence  ?  for  under  is 

over  and  under; 
If  thunder  could  be  without  lightning,  lightning 

could  be  without  thunder. 


Doubt    is  faith  in    the    main :    but   faith,  on    the 

whole,  is  doubt  ; 
We  cannot  believe  by  proof:  but  could  we  believe 

without  ? 


Why,  and  whither,  and  how  ?   for  barley  and  rye 

are  not  clover; 
Neither  are  straight  lines  curves  :  yet  over  is  under 

and  over. 

Two  and  two  may  be  four :  but  four  and  four  are 

not  eight; 
Fate  and  God  may  be  twain :  but  God  is  the  same 

thing  as  fate. 

Ask  a  man  what  he  thinks,  and  get  from  a  man 

what  he  feels ; 
God,  once  caught  in    the  fact,  shews  you  a  fair 

pair  of  heels. 

Body  and  spirit  are  twins :  God  only  knows  which 

is  which  ; 
The  soul  squats  down  in  the  flesh,  like  a  tinker 

drunk  in  a  ditch. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


One  and  two  are  not  one:  but  one  and  nothing  is 

two ; 
Truth  can  hardly  be  false,  if  falsehood  cannot  be 

true. 

Once  the  mastodon  was  :  pterodactyls  were  com- 
mon as  cocks ; 

Then  the  mammoth  was  God :  now  is  He  a 
prize  ox. 

Parallels   all  things   are:    yet   many   of  these   are 

askew. 
You  are  certainly  I :  but  certainly  I  am  not  you. 

Springs  the  rock  from  the  plain,  shoots  the  stream 

from  the  rock ; 
Cocks  exist  for  the  hen  :  but   hens  exist  for  the 

cock. 

God,  whom  we  see  not,  is  :  and  God,  who  is  not, 

we  see ; 
Fiddle,  we  know,  is  diddle  :  and  diddle,  we  take 

it,  is  dee. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


.82] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


TIMBUCTOO.  —  PART   I. 

The  situation. 

IN  Africa  (a  quarter  of  the  world),  1 

Men's  skins  are  black,  their  hair  is  crisp  and 
curl'd, 

And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public  view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo. 

The  natural  history. 

There  stalks  the  tiger,  —  there  the  lion  roars,        5 
Who  sometimes  eats  the  luckless  blackamoors; 
All  that  he  leaves  of  them  the  monster  throws 
To  jackals,  vultures,  dogs,  cats,  kites,  and  crows ; 
His  hunger  thus  the  forest  monster  gluts, 
And  then  lies  down  'neath  trees  called  cocoa-nuts.  10 

The  lion  hunt. 

Quick  issue  out,  with  musket,  torch,  and  brand, 
The  sturdy  blackamoors,  a  dusky  band  ! 
The  beast  is  found  —  pop  goes  the  musketoons  — 
The  lion  falls  covered  with  horrid  wounds. 

Their  lives  at  home. 

At  home  their  lives  in  pleasure  always  flow,         15 
But  many  have  a  different  lot  to  know ! 

Abroad. 
They  're  often  caught  and  sold  as  slaves,  alas ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Reflections  on  the  foregoing. 

Thus  men  from  highest  joy  to  sorrow  pass ; 
Yet  though  thy  monarch  and  thy  nobles  boil 
Rack  and  molasses  in  Jamaica's  isle,  20 

Desolate  Africa !  .thou  art  lovely  yet ! 
One  heart  yet  beats  which  ne'er  thee  shall  forget. 

What  though  thy  maidens  are  a  blackish  brown, 
Does  virtue  dwell  in  whiter  breasts  alone  ? 
Oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no  !  25 

.  It  shall  not,  must  not,  cannot,  e'er  be  so. 
The  day  shall  come  when  Albion's  self  shall  feel 
Stern  Afric's  wrath,  and  writhe  'neath  Afric's  steel. 

I  see  her  tribes  the  hill  of  glory  mount, 
And  sell  their  sugars  on  their  own  account ;         30 
While  round  her  throne  the  prostrate  nations  come, 
Sue  for  her  rice,  and  barter  for  her  rum  ! 

Notes. — Lines  i  and  2. — See  Outline's  Geography. 
The  site  of  Timbuctoo  is  doubtful  ;  the  author  has  neatly 
expressed  this  in  the  poem,  at  the  same  time  giving  us  some 
slight  hints  relative  to  its  situation. 

Line  5.  — So  Horace  :  leonum  arida  nutrix. 

Line  13.  —  "Pop  goes  the  musketoons."  A  learned 
friend  suggested  "Bang"  as  a  stronger  expression,  but  as 
African  gunpowder  is  notoriously  bad,  the  author  thought 
"Pop"  the  better  word. 

Lines  15-18. — A  concise  but  affecting  description  is 
here  given  of  the  domestic  habits  of  the  people.  The 
infamous  manner  in  which  they  are  entrapped  and  sold  as 
slaves  is  described,  and  the  whole  ends  with  an  appropriate 
moral  sentiment.  The  enthusiasm  the  author  feels  is  beau- 
tifully expressed  in  lines  25  and  26. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  TUPPER 


OF   FRIENDSHIP 

judiciously  thy  friends;  for  to  dis- 
I  card  them  is  undesirable, 

^•^  Yet  it  is  better  to  drop  thy  friends,  O  my 

daughter,  than  to  drop  thy  H's. 
Dost  thou  know  a  wise  woman  ?  yea,  wiser  than 

the  children  of  light  ? 
Hath  she  a  position  ?  and    a  title  ?    and    are    her 

parties  in  the  Morning  Post  ? 
If  thou  dost,  cleave  unto  her,  and  give  up  unto  her 

thy  body  and  mind ; 
Think  with  her  ideas,  and  distribute  thy  smiles  at 

her  bidding : 

So  shalt  thou  become  like  unto  her ;  and  thy  man- 
ners shall  be  u  formed," 
And   thy  name  shall    be  a  Sesame,  at  which  the 

doors  of  the  great  shall  fly  open  : 
Thou  shalt  know  every  Peer,  his  arms,  and  the 

date  of  his  creation, 
His  pedigree  and  their  intermarriages,  and  cousins 

to  the  sixth  remove : 
Thou  shalt  kiss  the  hand  of  Royalty,  and  lo  !   in 

next  morning's  papers, 
Side  by  side  with  rumors  of  wars,  and  stories  of 

shipwrecks  and  sieges, 

[  '8s  3 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Shall  appear  thy  name,  and    the  minutiae    of  thy 

head-dress  and  petticoat, 
For  an  enraptured  public  to  muse  upon  over  their 

matutinal  muffin. 

Charles  S.  Calverley. 


OF   READING 

READ  not  Milton,  for  he  is  dry;  nor  Shake- 
speare, for  he  wrote  of  common  life ; 
Nor  Scott,  for  his  romances,  though  fasci- 
nating, are  yet  intelligible ; 

Nor  Thackeray,  for  he  is  a  Hogarth,  a  photogra- 
pher who  flattereth  not ; 

Nor  Kingsley,  for  he  shall  teach  thee  that   thou 
shouldest  not  dream,  but  do. 

Read    incessantly    thy    Burke;    that    Burke    who, 
nobler  than  he  of  old, 

Treateth  of  the  Peer  and  Peeress,  the  truly  Sublime 
and  Beautiful; 

Likewise  study  the  "  creations "  of  "  the  Prince 
of  modern  Romance ;  " 

Sigh  over  Leonard  the  Martyr,  and  smile  on  Pel- 
ham  the  puppy; 

Learn  how  "love  is  the  dram-drinking  of  existence;  " 

And  how  we  "  invoke,  in  t?he  Gadara  of  our  still 
closets, 

The  beautiful  ghost  of  the  Ideal,  with  the  simple 
wand  of  the  pen." 

Listen  how  Maltravers  and  the  orphan  "  forgot  all 
but  love," 

[  '86] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  how  Devereux's  family  chaplain  "  made  and 

unmade  kings ;  " 
How  Eugene  Aram,  though  a  thief,  a  liar,  and  a 

murderer, 
Yet,  being  intellectual,  was  amongst   the  noblest 

of  mankind ; 
So  shalt  thou  live  in  a  world  peopled  with  heroes 

and  master  spirits 
And  if  thou  canst  not  realize  the  Ideal,  thou  shalt 

at  least  idealize  the  Real. 

Charles  S.  Calverley. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  THACKERAY 

THE   WILLOW-TREE 

(Another  version) 

LONG  by  the  willow-trees 
Vainly  they  sought  her, 
Wild  rang  the  mother's  screams 
O'er  the  gray  water : 
"  Where  is  my  lovely  one  ? 
Where  is  my  daughter  ? 

"Rouse  thee,  Sir  Constable  — 

Rouse  thee  and  look ; 
Fisherman,  bring  your  net, 

Boatman,  your  hook. 
Beat  in  the  lily-beds, 

Dive  in  the  brook  !  " 


Vainly  the  constable 

Shouted  and  called  her; 

Vainly  the  fisherman 
Beat  the  green  alder ; 

Vainly  he  flung  the  net, 
Never  it  hauled  her ! 
[  '83  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Mother  beside  the  fire 
Sat,  her  nightcap  in ; 

Father,  in  easy  chair, 
Gloomily  napping, 

When  at  the  window-sill 
Came  a  light  tapping ! 


And  a  pale  countenance 

Looked  through  the  casement, 
Loud  beat  the  mother's  heart, 

Sick  with  amazement, 
And  at  the  vision  which 

Came  to  surprise  her, 
Shrieked  in  an  agony  — 

«  Lor' !  it 's  Elizar !  " 


Yes,  't  was  Elizabeth  — 

Yes,  't  was  their  girl ; 
Pale  was  her  cheek,  and  her 

Hair  out  of  curl. 
u  Mother,"  the  loving  one, 

Blushing  exclaimed, 
"  Let  not  your  innocent 

Lizzy  be  blamed. 


"  Yesterday,  going  to  Aunt 

Jones's  to  tea, 
Mother,  dear  mother,  I 

Forgot  the  door-key ! 


A     Parody    Anthology 


And  as  the  night  was  cold 

And  the  way  steep, 
Mrs.  Jones  kept  me  to 

Breakfast  and  sleep." 

Whether  her  Pa  and  Ma 

Fully  believed  her, 
That  we  shall  never  know, 

Stern  they  received  her; 
And  for  the  work  of  that 

Cruel,  though  short,  night 
Sent  her  to  bed  without 

Tea  for  a  fortnight. 

MORAL 

Hey  diddle  diddlety, 

Cat  and  the  fiddlety, 
Maidens  of  England,  take  caution  by  she ! 

Let  love  and  suicide 

Never  tempt  you  aside, 
And  always  remember  to  take  the  door-key. 

W.  M.  Thackeray 


(  1901 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER  CHARLES   DICKENS 

MAN'S    PLACE   IN   NATURE 
(Dedicated  to  Darwin  and  Huxley) 

THEY  told  him  gently  he  was  made 
Of  nicely  tempered  mud, 
That  man  no  lengthened  part  had  played 
Anterior  to  the  Flood. 
'T  was  all  in  vain  ;   he  heeded  not. 

Referring  plant  and  worm, 
Fish,  reptile,  ape,  and  Hottentot, 
To  one  primordial  germ.. 

They  asked  him  whether  he  could  bear 

To  think  his  kind  allied 
To  all  those  brutal  forms  which  were 

In  structure  Pithecoid ; 
Whether  he  thought  the  apes  and  us 

Homologous  in  form ; 
He  said,  u  Homo  and  Pithecus 

Came  from  one  common  germ." 

They  called  him  "  atheistical," 

"  Sceptic,"  and  "  infidel" 
They  swore  his  doctrines  without  fail 

Would  plunge  him  into  hell. 
[    '9'   1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  he  with  proofs  in  no  way  lame. 

Made  this  deduction  firm, 
That  all  organic  beings  came 

From  one  primordial  germ. 

That  as  for  the  Noachian  flood, 

'T  was  long  ago  disproved, 
That  as  for  man  being  made  of  mud, 

All  by  whom  truth  is  loved 
Accept  as  fact  what,  malgr'e  strife, 

Research  tends  to  confirm  — 
That  man,  and  everything  with  life, 

Came  from  one  common  germ. 

Anonymous* 


1 19*  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

AFTER  ROBERT  BROWNING 

HOME  TRUTHS  FROM  ABROAD 


0' 


to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April 's  there. 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees  some  morning"  in  despair; 
There  's  a  horrible  fog  i'  the  heart  o'  the  town, 
And  the  greasy  pavement  is  damp  and  brown, 
While  the  rain-drop  falls  from  the  laden  bough 
In  England now  ! 

II 

"  And  after  April  when  May  follows," 

How  foolish  seem  the  returning  swallows. 

Hark !  how  the  east  wind  sweeps  along  the  street, 

And  how  we  give  one  universal  sneeze  ! 

The  hapless  lambs  at  thought  of  mint-sauce  bleat, 

And  ducks  are  conscious  of  the  coming  peas. 

Lest  you  should  think  the  Spring  is  really  present, 

A  biting  frost  will  come  to  make  things  pleasant; 

And  though  the  reckless  flowers  begin  to  blow, 

They  'd  better  far  have  nestled  down  below ; 

An  English  Spring  sets  men  and  women  frowning, 

Despite  the  rhapsodies  of  Robert  Browning. 

Anonymous. 

[13]  [  193  ] 


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AFTER  BROWNING 

NOT  that  I  care  for  ceremonies  —  no  ; 
But  still  there  are  occasions,  as  you  see 
(Observe  the  costumes  —  gallantly  they  show 
To  my  poor  judgment !)  which,  twixt  you  and  me, 
Not  to  come  forth,  one's  few  remaining  hairs, 
Or  wig,  —  it  matters  little,  —  bravely  brushed 
And  oiled,  dress-coated,  sprucely-clad,  the  tears 
And  tweaks  and  wrenches,  people  overflushed 
With  —  well,  not  wine  —  oh,  no,  we  '11  rather  say 
Anticipation,  the  delight  of  seeing 
No  matter  what  !   inflict  upon  you  (pray 
Remove  your  elbow,  friend  !)  in  spite  of  being 
Not  quite  the  man  one  used  to  be,  and  not 
So  young  as  once  one  was,  would  argue  one 
Churlish,  indifferent,  hipped,  rheumatic,  what 
You  please  to  say. 

So,  not  to  spoil  the  fun  — 
Comprenez-vous  ?  —  observe  that  lady  there, 
In  native  worth  !     Aha  !  you  see  the  jest  ? 
Not  bad,  I  think.     My  own,  too  !     Woman  's  fair, 
Or  not  —  the  odds  so  long  as  she  is  dressed  ? 
They  're    coming  !       Soh  !       Ha,    Bennett's   Bar- 
carole — 

A  poor  thing,  but  mine  own  !     That  minor  third 
Is  not  so  bad  now  !      Mum,  sirs  !      (Bless  my  soul, 
I  wonder  what  her  veil  cost !)     Mum  's  the  word  ! 

Anonymous, 
[  '94  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE  COCK  AND  THE  BULL 

YOU  see  this   pebble-stone  ?     It 's   a   thing   I 
bought 
Of  a  bit  of  a  chit  of  a  boy  i'  the  mid  o'  the 

day. 

I  like  to  dock  the  smaller  parts  o'  speech, 
As  we  curtail  the  already  cur-tail'd  cur  — 
(Yoii  catch  the  paronomasia,  play  'po'  words?) 
Did,  rather,  i'  the  pre-Landseerian  days. 
Well,  to  my  muttons.      I  purchased  the  concern, 
And  clapt  it  i'  my  poke,  having  given  for  same 
By  way  o'  chop,  swop,  barter  or  exchange  — 
"  Chop  "  was  my  snickering  dandiprat's  own  term  — 
One  shilling  and   fourpence,  current  coin  o'  the 

realm. 

O-n-e  one,  and  f-o-u-r  four 

Pence,  one  and  fourpence  —  you  are  with  me,  sir  ?  — 
What  hour  it  skills  not :  ten  or  eleven  o'  the  clock, 
One  day  (and  what  a  roaring  day  it  was 
Go  shop  or  sight-see  —  bar  a  spit  o'  rain  !) 
In  February,  eighteen  sixty-nine, 
Alexandria  Victoria,  Fidei  — 
Hm  —  hm  —  how  runs  the  jargon  ?  being  on  the 
throne. 

Such,  sir,  are  all  the  facts,  succinctly  put, 
The  basis  or  substratum  —  what  you  will  — 
Of  the  impending  eighty  thousand  lines. 
"  Not  much  in  'em  either,"  quoth  perhaps  simple 
Hodge. 

['951 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  there  's  a  superstructure.     Wait  a  bit. 

Mark  first  the  rationale  of  the  thing  : 

Hear  logic  rivel  and  levigate  the  deed. 

That  shilling  —  and  for  matter  o'  that,  the  pence  — 

I  had  o'  course  upo'  me  —  wi'  me  say  — 

(Mecum  's  the  Latin,  make  a  note  o'  that) 

When  I  popp'd  pen  i'  stand,  scratch'd  ear,  wiped 

snout,  % 

(Let  everybody  wipe  his  own  himself) 
Sniff'd  —  tch  !  -—  at    snuff-box ;    tumbled   up,   ne- 

heed, 
Haw-haw'd   (not  hee-haw'd,  that 's  another  guess 

thing), 

Then  fumbled  at,  and  stumbled  out  of,  door. 
I  shoved  the  timber  ope  wi'  my  omoplat; 
And  in  vestibulo,  i'  the  lobby  to  wit 
(lacobi  Facciolati's  rendering,  sir), 
Donn'd  galligaskins,  antigropeloes, 
And  so  forth  ;   and,  complete  with   hat  and  gloves, 
One  on  and  one  a-dangle  i'  my  hand, 
And  ombrifuge  (Lord  love  you  !),  case  o'  rain, 
I  flopp'd  forth,  'sbuddikins  !   on  my  own  ten  toes 
(I  do  assure  you  there  be  ten  of  them), 
And  went  clump-clumping  up  hill  and  down  dale 
To  find  myself  o'  the  sudden  i'  front  o'  the  boy. 
But  case  I  had  n't  'em  on  me,  could  I  ha'  bought 
This  sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call  toy, 
This  pebble  thing,  o'  the  boy-thing  ?      Q.  E.  D. 
That 's  proven  without  aid  from  mumping  Pope, 
Sleek  porporate  or  bloated  Cardinal. 
(Is  n't  it,  old  Fatchaps  ?      You  're  in  Euclid  now.) 
So,  having  the  shilling  —  having  i'  fact  a  lot  — 

[  '96] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  pence  and  halfpence,  ever  so  many  o'  them, 

I  purchased,  as  I  think  I  said  before, 

The  pebble  (lapis,  lapidis,-di^dem^-de — 

What  nouns  'crease  short  i'  the  genitive,  Fatchaps, 

eh?) 

O'  the  boy,  a  bare-legg'd  beggarly  son  of  a  gun, 
For  one  and  fourpence.      Here  we  are  again. 

Now  Law  steps  in,  bigwigg'd,  voluminous-jaw'd ; 
Investigates  and  re-investigates. 
Was  the  transaction  illegal  ?     Law  shakes  head 
Perpend,  sir,  all  the  bearings  of  the  case.  .    .• 

At  first  the  coin  was  mine,  the  chattel  his. 

But  now  (by  virtue  of  the  said  exchange 

And  barter)  vice  versa  all  the  coin, 

Per  juris  operationem,  vests 

F  the  boy  and  his  assigns  till  ding  o'  doom ; 

( In  stecula  sa:culo-o-o-rum  ; 

I  think  I  hear  the  Abate  mouth  out  that.) 

To  have  and  hold  the  same  to  him  and  them. 

Confer  some  idiot  on  Conveyancing. 

Whereas  the  pebble  and  every  part  thereof, 

And  all  that  appertaineth  thereunto, 

^uodcunque  pert  met  ad  earn  rent 

(I  fancy,  sir,  my  Latin  's  rather  pat), 

Or  shall,  will,  may,  might,  can,  could,  would  or 

should 

(  Subaudi  cetera  —  clap  we  to  the  close  — 
For  what 's  the  good  of  Law  in  a  case  o'  the  kind), 
Is  mine  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 
This  settled,  I  resume  the  thread  o'  the  tale. 
[  '97] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Now  for  a  touch  o'  the  vendor's  quality. 
He  says  a  gen'lman  bought  a  pebble  of  him 
(This   pebble   i'    sooth,   sir,   which   I   hold  i'   my 

hand), 

And  paid  for't,  like  a  gen'lman,  on  the  nail. 
"  Did  I  overcharge  him  a  ha'penny  ?      Devil  a  bit. 
Fiddlepin's  end  !      Get  out,  you  blazing  ass  ! 
Gabble  o'  the  goose.     Don't  bugaboo-baby  me  ! 
Go   double  or    quits  ?     Yah  !  tittup  !  what 's    the 

odds  ?  " 
There  's  the  transaction  view'd  i'  the  vendor's  light 

Next  ask  that  dumpled  hag,  stood  snuffling  by, 
With  her  three  frowsy  blowsy  brats  o'  babes, 
The  scum  o'  the  kennel,  cream  o'  the  filth-heap  — 

Faugh  ! 

Aie,  aie,  aie,  aie  !  OTOTOTOTOTOL 
('Stead  which  we  blurt  out  Hoighty  toJghty  now), 
And  the  baker  and  candlestickmaker,  and  Jack  and 

Ji", 

Blear'd  Goody  this  and  queasy  Gaffer  that. 
Ask  the  schoolmaster.     Take  schoolmaster  first. 

He  saw  a  gentleman  purchase  of  a  lad 

A  stone,  and  pay  for  it  rite,  on  the  square, 

And  carry  it  off  per  saltum,  jauntily, 

Propria  quae  maribus^  gentleman's  property  now 

(Agreeably  to  the  law  explain'd  above), 

In  proprium  usum^  for  his  private  ends, 

The  boy  he  chuck'd  a  brown  i'  the  air,  and  bit 

F  the  face  the  shilling ;  heaved  a  thumping  stone 

At  a  lean  hen  that  ran  cluck  clucking  by 

[  '98] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


(And  hit  her,  dead  as  nail  i'  post  o'  door), 

Then  abiit  —  what 's  the  Ciceronian  phrase?  — 

Excessit,  evasit,  erupit  —  off  slogs  boy  ; 

Off  like  bird,  avi  similis  —  you  observed 

The  dative?   Pretty  i'  the  Mantuan  ! )  —  Anglice 

OfF  in  three  flea  skips.      Hactenus,  so  far, 

So  good,  tarn  bene.      Bene,  satis ,  male,  — 

Where  was  I  with  my  trope  'bout  one  in  a  quag  ? 

I  did  once  hitch  the  syntax  into  verse  : 

Verbum  personale,  a  verb  personal, 

Concordat  —  ay,  "agrees,"  old  Fatchaps  —  cum 

Nominativo,  with  its  nominative, 

Genere,  i'  point  o'  gender,  numero, 

O'  number,  et  persona,  and  person.    Ut, 

Instance  :   Sol  ruit,  down  flops  sun,  et,  and, 

Monies  umbrantur,  out  flounce  mountains.     Pah! 

Excuse  me,  sir,  I  think  I  'm  going  mad. 

You  see  the  trick  on  't  though,  and  can  yourself 

Continue  the  discourse  ad  libitum. 

It  takes  up  about  eighty  thousand  lines, 

A  thing  imagination  boggles  at ; 

And  might,  odds-bobs,  sir!  in  judicious  hands, 

Extend  from  here  to  Mesopotamy. 

Charles  S.  Calverley. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A  STACCATO  TO  O  LE  LUPE 

OLE  LUPE,  Gelett  Burgess,  this  is  very  sad 
to  find ; 
In  the  Bookman  for  September,  in  a  manner 

most  unkind, 

There  appears  a  half-page  picture,  makes  me  think 
I  've  lost  my  mind. 

They     have    reproduced     a    window,  —  Doxey's 

window  (I  dare  say 
In  your  rambles  you  have  seen  it,  passed  it  twenty 

times  a  day),  — 
As  "  A  Novel  Exhibition  of  Examples  of  Decay." 

There  is  Nordau  we  all  sneer  at,  and  Verlaine  we 

all  adore, 
And  a  little  book  of  verses  with  its  betters  by  the 

score, 
With  three  faces  on  the  cover  I  believe  I  've  seen 

before. 

Well,  here  's  matter  for  reflection,  makes  me  won- 
der where  I  am. 

Here  is  Ibsen  the  gray  lion,  linked  to  Beardsley 
the  black  lamb. 

I  was  never  out  of  Boston ;  all  that  I  can  say  is, 
"Damn!" 

[    200   ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Who  could  think,  in  two  short  summers  we  should 

cause  so  much  remark, 
With  no  purpose  but  our  pastime,  and  to  make 

the  public  hark, 
When    I    soloed    on   THE    CHAP-BOOK,   and    you 

answered  with  THE  LARK! 

Do  young  people  take  much  pleasure  when  they 

read  that  sort  of  thing  ? 
u  Well,  they  buy  it,"  answered  Doxey,  u  and  I 

take  what  it  will  bring. 
Publishers  may  dread  extinction  —  not  with  such 

fads  on  the  string. 

"There  is  always  sale  for  something,  and  demand 

for  what  is  new. 
These    young    people  who  are  restless,  and   have 

nothing  else  to  do, 
Like  to  think  there  is  ca  movement/  just  to  keep 

themselves  in  view. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  Decadence  but  the  magic  of 

a  name. 
People   talk   and   papers  drivel,  scent  a  vice,  and 

hint  a  shame ; 
And  all  that  is  good  for  business,  helps  to   boom 

my  little  game." 

But    when    I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  £:    stand 

upon  my  nerve, 

Meditate  on  portly  leisure  with  a  balance  in  reserve, 
In  he  comes  with  his  u  Decadence !  "   like  a  fly  ir 

my  preserve. 

201 


A    Parody    Anthology 

1  can  see  myself,  O  Burgess,  half  a  century  from 

now, 
Laid  to  rest  among  the  ghostly,  like  a  broken  toy 

somehow ; 
All    my    lovely  songs    and  ballads  vanished    with 

your  u  Purple  Cow." 

But  I  will  return  some  morning,  though  I  know  it 

will  be  hard, 
To    Cornhill    among  the  bookstalls,  and  surprise 

some  minor  bard  ; 
Turning  over  their  old  rubbish  for   the  treasures 

we  discard. 

I  shall  warn  him  like  a  critic,  creeping  when  his 

back  is  turned : 
"Ink  and  paper,  dead  and  done  with;  Doxey  spent 

what  Doxey  earned ; 
Poems  doubtless  are  immortal  where  a  poem  can 

be.  discerned !  " 

How  his  face  will  go  to  ashes,  when  he  feels  his 

empty  purse! 
How  he'll  wish  his  vogue  were  greater,  —  plume 

himself  it  is  no  worse ; 
Then  go  bother  the  dear  public  with  his  puny  little 

verse ! 

Don't  I  know  how  he  will  pose  it,  patronize  our 
larger  time : 

"Poor  old  Browning  ;  little  Kipling;  what  attempts 
they  made  to  rhyme!" 

Just  let  me  have  half  an  hour  with  that  nin- 
compoop sublime ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  will  haunt  him  like  a  purpose,  I  will  ghost  him 
like  a  fear; 

When  he  least  expects  my  presence,  I  '11  be  mum- 
bling in  his  ear: 

u  O  Le  Lupe  lived  in  Frisco,  and  I  lived  in  Boston 
here. 

"Never    heard   of  us?    Good    heavens,   can    you 

never  have  been  told 
Of  the  Larks  we  used  to  publish,  and  the  Chap- 

Books  that  we  sold  ? 
Where  are  all  our  first  editions  ?  "    I  feel    damp 

and  full  of  mould. 

Bliss  Carman. 


BY   THE   SEA 

Mutatis  Mutandis 

IS  it  life  or  is  it  death  ? 
A  whiff  of  the  cool  salt  scum, 
As  the  whole  sea  puffed  its  breath 
Against  you,  —  blind  and  dumb  : 
This  way  it  answereth. 

Nearer  the  sands  it  shows 

Spotted  and  leprous  tints; 
But  stay  !  yon  fisher  knows 

Rock-tokens,  which  evince 
How  high  the  tide  arose. 

[  203 } 


A    Parody    Anthology 


How  high  ?      In  you  and  me 

'T  was  falling  then,  I  think ; 
Open  your  heart's  eyes,  see 

From  just  so  slight  a  chink 
The  chasm  that  now  must  be. 


You  sighed  and  shivered  then. 

Blue  ecstasies  of  June 
Around  you,  shouts  of  fishermen, 

Sharp  wings  of  sea  gulls,  soon 
To  dip  — the  clock  struck  ten  ! 


Was  it  the  cup  too  full, 

To  carry  it  you  grew 
Too  faint,  the  wine's  hue  dull 

(Dulness,  misjudged  untrue !), 
Love's  flower  unfit  to  cull  ? 


You  should  have  held  me  fast 
One  moment,  stopped  my  pace3 

Crushed  down  the  feeble,  vast 
Suggestions  of  embrace, 

And  so  be  crowned  at  last. 


But  now  !   Bare-legged  and  brown 
Bait-diggers  delve  the  sand, 

Tramp  i'  the  sunshine  down 
Burnt-ochre  vestured  land, 

And  yonder  stares  the  town. 
[  204-] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A  heron  screams  !     I  shut 

This  book  of  scurf  and  scum, 
Its  final  pages  uncut ; 

The  sea-beast,  blind  and  dumb, 
Done  with  his  bellowing  ?     All  but ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


ANGELO    ORDERS    HIS    DINNER 

I,  ANGELO,  obese,  black-garmented, 
Respectable,  much  in  demand,  well  fed 
With  mine  own  larder's  dainties,  where,  in- 
deed, 

Such  cakes  of  myrrh  or  fine  alyssum  seed, 
Thin  as  a  mallow-leaf,  embrowned  o'  the  top. 
Which,  cracking,  lets  the  ropy,  trickling  drop 
Of  sweetness  touch  your  tongue,  or  potted  nests 
Which  my  recondite  recipe  invests 
With  cold  conglomerate  tidbits  —  ah,  the  bill ! 
(You  say),  but  given  it  were  mine  to  fill 
My  chests,  the  case  so  put  were  yours,  we  '11  say 
(This  counter,  here,  your  post,  as  mine  to-day), 
And  you  've  an  eye  to  luxuries,  what  harm 
In  smoothing  down  your  palate  with  the  charm 
Yourself  concocted  ?     There  we  issue  take ; 
And  see  !  as  thus  across  the  rim  I  break 
This  puffy  paunch  of  glazed  embroidered  cake, 
So  breaks,  through  use,  the  lust  of  watering  chaps 
And  craveth  plainness:  do  I  so?      Perhaps; 
But  that 's  my  secret.      Find  me  such  a  man 
As  Lippo  yonder,  built  upon  the  plan 
[  *°5  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Of  heavy  storage,  double-navelled,  fat 
From  his  own  giblet's  oils,  an  Ararat 
Uplift  o'er  water,  sucking  rosy  draughts 
From  Noah's  vineyard,  —  crisp,  enticing  wafts 
Yon  kitchen  now  emits,  which  to  your  sense 
Somewhat  abate  the  fear  of  old  events, 
Qualms  to  the  stomach, —  I,  you  see,  am  slow 
Unnecessary  duties  to  forego, — 
You  understand  ?      A  venison  haunch,  baut  gout, 
Ducks  that  in  Cimbrian  olives  mildly  stew. 
And  sprigs  of  anise,  might  one's  teeth  provoke 
To  taste,  and  so  we  wear  the  complex  yoke 
Just  as  it  suits,  —  my  liking,  I  confess, 
More  to  receive,  and  to  partake  no  less, 
Still  more  obese,  while  through  thick  adipose 
Sensation  shoots,  from  testing  tongue  to  toes 
Far  off,  dim-conscious,  at  the  body's  verge, 
Where  the  froth-whispers  of  its  waves  emerge 
On  the  untasting  sand.     Stay,  now  !  a  seat 
Is  bare :  I,  Angelo,  will  sit  and  eat. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  BUCKET 


P 


RE-ADMONISHETH  the  writer: 
H 'm,  for  a  subject  it  is  well  enough! 
Who  wrote  "  Sordello "    finds    no    subject 
tough. 


Well,  Jack  and  Jill  —  God  knows  the  life  they  led 
(The  poet  never  told  us,  more  's  the  pity) 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Pent  up  in  some  damp  kennel  of  their  own, 
Beneath  the  hillside ;  but  it  once  befell 
That  Jack  and  Jill,  niece,  cousin,  uncle,  aunt 
(Some   one   of  all   the   brood),  would   wash    and 

scour, 

Rinse  out  a  cess-pit,  swab  the  kennel  floor, 
And  water  (liquor  vitae,  Lawson  calls, 
But  I  —  I  hold  by  whisky.     Never  mind  ; 
I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  sir, 
And  missed  the  scrap  o'  blue  at  buttonhole), 
Spring  water  was  the  needful  at  the  time, 
So  they  must  climb  the  hill  for  't.     Well  and  good. 
We  all  climb  hills,  I  take  it,  on  some  quest, 
Maybe  for  less  than  stinking  (I  forgot ! 
I  mean  than  wholesome)  water.   .   .   .    Ferret  out 
The  rotten  bucket  from  the  lumber  shed, 
Weave  ropes  and  splice  the  handle  —  off  they  go 
To  where  the  cold  spring  bubbles  up  i'  the  cleft, 
And  sink  the  bucket  brimful  in  the  spate. 
Then    downwards — hanging    back?        (You    bet 

your  life 

The  girl  s  share  fell  upon  Jack's  shoulders.)   Down, 
Down  to  the  bottom  —  all  but —  trip,  slip,  squelch  ! 
And  guggle-guggle  goes  the  bucketful 
Back  to  the  earth,  and  Jack  's  a  broken  head, 
And  swears  amid  the  heather  does  our  Jack. 
(A  man  would  swear  who  watched  both  blood  and 

bucket, 

One  dripping  down  his  forehead,  t'  other  fled 

Clink  ety -tinkle,  to  the  stones  below, 

A  good  half-hour's  trudge  to  get  it  back.) 


A    Farody    Anthology 


Jack,  therefore,  as  I  said,  exploded  straight 

In  brimstone-flavored  language.     You,  of  course, 

Maintain  he  bore  it  calmly —  not  a  bit. 

A  good  bucolic  curse  that  rent  the  cliffs 

And  frightened  for  a  moment  quaking  Jill 

Out  of  the  limp,  unmeaning  girl's  tee-hee 

That  womankind  delight  in.   ...      Here  we  end 

The  first  verse  —  there's  a  deal  to  study  in't. 


So  much  for  Jack  —  but  here  's  a  fate  above, 
A  cosmic  force  that  blunders  into  right, 
Just  when  the  strained  sense  hints  at  revolution 
Because  the  world's  great  fly-wheel  runs  aslant  — 
And    up    go  Jill's    red  kibes.      (You    think    I  'm 

wrong ; 

And  Fate  was  napping  at  the  time ;  perhaps 
You  're  right.)      We  '11  call  it  Devil's  agency 
That  sent  the  shrieking  sister  on  her  head, 
And  knocked  the  tangled  locks  against  the  stones. 
Well,  down  went  Jill,  but  was  n't  hurt.      Oh,  no  I 
The  Devil  pads  the  world  to  suit  his  own, 
And  packs  the  cards  according.     Down  went  Jill 
Unhurt.     And  Jack  trots  off  to  bed,  poor  brute, 
Fist  welted  into  eyeball,  mouth  agape 
For  yelling,  —  your  bucolic  always  yells, 
And  out  of  his  domestic  pharmacy 
Rips  forth  the  cruet-stand,  upsets  the  cat, 
And  ravages  the  store-room  for  his  balm. 
Eureka  !  —  but  he  did  n't  use  that  word  — 
A  pound  of  candles,  corpse-like,  side  by  side, 
Wrapped  up  in  his  medicament.      Out,  knife! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Cut  string,  and  strip  the  shrouding  from  the  lot! 
Steep  swift  and  jam  it  on  the  gaping  cut ; 
Then  bedward — cursing  man  and  friends  alike. 

Now  back  to  Jill.     She  was  n't  hurt,  I  said, 
And  all  the  woman's  spite  was  up  in  arms. 
So  Jack's  abed.     She  slips,  peeks  through  the  door, 
And  sees  the  split  head  like  a  luggage-label, 
Halved,  quartered,  on  the  pillow.      "  Ee-ki-ree, 
Tee-hee-hee-hee,"  she  giggles  through  the  crack, 
Much     as    the     Roman     ladies     grinned  —  don't 

smile  — 
To  see  the  dabbled  bodies  in  the  sand, 

Appealing  to  their  benches  for  a  sign. 

Down  thumbs,  and  giggle  louder —  so  did  Jill. 

But  mark  now  !   Comes  the  mother  round  the  door, 

Red-hot  from  climbing  up  the  hill  herself, 

And  caught  the  graceless  giggler.     Whack  !   flack  ! 

whack ! 

Here  's  Nemesis  whichever  way  you  like ! 
She  did  n't  stop  to  argue.      Given  a  head 
Broken,  a  woman  chuckling  at  the  door, 
And  here  's  your  circumstantial  evidence  complete. 
Whack !  while  Jack  sniffs  and  sniggers  from   the 

bed. 

I  like  that  horny-handed  mother  o'  Jill. 
The  world's  best  women  died,  sir,  long  ago. 
Well,  Jack  's  avenged;  as  for  the  other,  gr-r-r-r  ! 

Rudyard  Kipling. 

(  14 ]  [   209  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE  JAM-POT 

Jam-pot  —  tender  thought ! 
I  grabbed  it  —  so  did  you. 
"What  wonder  while  we  fought 
Together  that  it  flew 
In  shivers  ?  "  you  retort. 

You  should  have  loosed  your  hold 
One  moment  —  checked  your  fist. 

But,  as  it  was,  too  bold 

You  grappled  and  you  missed. 

More  plainly  — you  were  sold. 

"  Well,  neither  of  us  shared 

The  dainty."     That  your  plea? 

"  Well,  neither  of  us  cared," 
I  answer.  ..."  Let  me  see. 

How  have  your  trousers  fared  ?  " 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


IMITATION  OF   ROBERT  BROWNING 

T)IRTHDAYS?  yes,  in  a  general  way  ; 
j|        For  the  most  if  not  for  the  best  of  men. 

You  were  born  (I  suppose)  on  a  certain  day, 
So  was  I ;  or  perhaps  in  the  night,  what  then  ? 

' 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Only  this  :  or  at  least,  if  more 

You    must    know,   not   think    it,    and    learn,   not 

speak ; 

There  is  truth  to  be  found  on  the  unknown  shore,  . 
And  many  will  find  where  few  will  seek. 

Fqr  many  are  called  and  few  are  chosen, 
And  the  few  grow  many  as  ages  lapse. 
But  when  will  the  many  grow  few  ;   what  dozen 
Is  fused  into  one  by  Time's  hammer-taps  ? 

A  bare  brown  stone  in  a  babbling  brook, — 
It  was  wanton  to  hurl  it  there,  you  say,  — 
And  the  moss,  which  clung  in  the  sheltered  nook 
(Yet  the  stream  runs  cooler)  is  washed  away. 

That  begs  the  question  ;   many  a  prater 
Thinks  such  a  suggestion  a  sound  u  stop  thief!  " 
Which,  may  I  ask,  do  you  think  the  greater, 
Sergeant-at-arms  or  a  Robber  Chief  ? 

And  if  it  were  not  so  ?     Still  you  doubt  ? 
Ah  !  yours  is  a  birthday  indeed,  if  so. 
That  were  something  to  write  a  poem  about, 
If  one  thought  a  little.     I  only  know. 

P.  S. 

There's  a  Me  Society  down  at  Cambridge, 
Where  my  works,  cum  notis  variorum, 
Are  talked  about ;  well,  I  require  the  same  bridge 
That  Euclid  took  toll  at  as  Asinorum. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And,  as  they  have  got  through  several  ditties 
I  thought  were  as  stiff  as  a  brick-built  wall, 
I  Ve  composed  the  above,  and  a  stiff  one  it  is, 
A  bridge  to  stop  asses  at,  once  for  all. 

7.  K.  Stephen. 


THE   LAST   RIDE   TOGETHER 

(From  her  Point  of  View} 

WHEN  I  had  firmly  answered  "No," 
And  he  allowed  that  that  was  so, 
I  really  thought  I  should  be  free 
For  good  and  all  from  Mr.  B., 

And  that  he  would  soberly  acquiesce. 
I  said  that  it  would  be  discreet 
That  for  awhile  we  should  not  meet ; 
I  promised  that  I  would  always  feel 
A  kindly  interest  in  his  weal ; 
I  thanked  him  for  his  amorous  zeal ; 

In  short,  I  said  all  I  could  but  u  yes." 

I  said  what  I  'm  accustomed  to ; 

I  acted  as  I  always  do. 

I  promised  he  should  find  in  me 

A  friend,  —  a  sister,  if  that  might  be; 

But  he  was  still  dissatisfied. 
He  certainly  was  most  polite ; 
He  said  exactly  what  was  right, 


A    Parody    Anthology 


He  acted  very  properly, 
Except  indeed  for  this,  that  he 
Insisted  on  inviting  me 

To   come   with   him   for  u  one  more  last 
ride." 


A  little  while  in  doubt  I  stood  : 

A  ride,  no  doubt,  would  do  me  good  ; 

I  had  a  habit  and  a  hat 

Extremely  well  worth  looking  at ; 

The  weather  was  distinctly  fine. 
My  horse,  too,  wanted  exercise, 
And  time,  when  one  is  riding,  flies ; 
Besides,  it  really  seemed,  you  see, 
The  only  way  of  ridding  me 
Of  pertinacious  Mr.  B. ; 

So  my  head  I  graciously  incline. 


I  won't  say  much  of  what  happened  next ; 
I  own  I  was  extremely  vexed. 
Indeed  I  should  have  been  aghast 
If  any  one  had  seen  what  passed  ; 

But  nobody  need  ever  know 
That,  as  I  leaned  forward  to  stir  the  fire, 
He  advanced  before  I  could  well  retire ; 
And  I  suddenly  felt,  to  my  great  alarm, 
The  grasp  of  a  warm,  unlicensed  arm, 
An  embrace  in  which  I  found  no  charm  ; 

I  was  awfully  glad  when  he  let  me  go. 

[2,3  j 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Then  we  began  to  ride ;  my  steed 
Was  rather  fresh,  too  fresh  indeed, 
And  at  first  I  thought  of  little,  save 
The  way  to  escape  an  early  grave, 

As  the  dust  rose  up  on  either  side. 
My  stern  companion  jogged  along 
On  a  brown  old  cob  both  broad  and  strong. 
He  looked  as  he  does  when  he  's  writing  verse, 
Or  endeavoring  not  to  swear  and  curse, 
Or  wondering  where  he  has  left  his  purse  5 

Indeed  it  was  a  sombre  ride. 

I  spoke  of  the  weather  to  Mr.  B., 

But  he  neither  listened  nor  spoke  to  me. 

I  praised  his  horse,  and  I  smiled  the  smile 

Which  was  wont  to  move  him  once  in  a  while. 

I  said  I  was  wearing  his  favorite  flowers, 
But  I  wasted  my  words  on  the  desert  air, 
For  he  rode  with  a  fixed  and  gloomy  stare. 
I  wonder  what  he  was  thinking  about. 
As  I  don't  read  verse,  I  shan't  find  out. 
It  was  something  subtle  and  deep,  no  doubt, 

A  theme  to  detain  a  man  for  hours. 

Ah  !  there  was  the  corner  where  Mr.  S. 
So  nearly  induced  me  to  whisper  "  yes ;  " 
And  here  it  was  that  the  next  but  one 
Proposed  on  horseback,  or  would  have  done, 

Had  his  horse  not  most  opportunely  shied ; 
Which  perhaps  was  due  to  the  unseen  flick 
He  received  from  my  whip ;  't  was  a  scurvy  trick 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  I  never  could  do  with  that  young  man, — 
I  hope  his  present  young  woman  can. 
Well,  I  must  say,  never,  since  time  began, 
Did  I  go  for  a  duller  or  longer  ride. 

He  never  smiles  and  he  never  speaks ; 
He  might  go  on  like  this  for  weeks ; 
He  rolls  a  slightly  frenzied  eye 
Towards  the  blue  and  burning  sky, 

And  the  cob  bounds  on  with  tireless  stride. 
If  we  are  n't  home  for  lunch  at  two 


I  don't  know  what  papa  will  do ; 
But  I  know  full  well  he  will  say  to  me, 
"  I  never  approved  of  Mr.  B. ; 
It 's  the  very  devil  that  you  and  he 

Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride." 

J.  K.  Stephen. 


UP   THE   SPOUT 

i. 

HI !  Just  you  drop  that !     Stop,  I  say  ! 
Shirk  work,  think  slink  off,  twist  friend's 
wrist  ? 

Where  that  spined  sand's  lined  band  's  the  bay  - 
Lined  blind  with  true  sea's  blue,  as  due  — 
Promising  —  not  to  pay  ? 
[  "5  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


n. 

For  the  sea's  debt  leaves  wet  the  sand ; 

Burst  worst  fate's  weight's  in  one  burst  gun  ? 
A  man's  own  yacht,  blown  —  What  ?  off  land  ? 

Tack  back,  or  veer  round  here,  then  —  queer! 
Reef  points,  though  —  understand  ? 


in. 

I  'm  blest  if  I  do.     Sigh  ?  be  blowed  ! 

Love's  doves  make  break  life's  ropes,  eh  ?  Tropes  ! 
Faith's  brig,  baulked,  sides  caulked,  rides  at  road  ; 

Hope's     gropes    befogged,    storm-dogged    and 

bogged  - 
Clogged,  water-logged,  her  load ! 


IV. 

Stowed,  by  Jove,  right  and  tight,  away. 

No  show  now  how  best  plough  sea's  brow, 
Wrinkling  —  breeze  quick,  tease  thick,  ere  day, 

Clear  sheer  wave's  sheen  of  green,  I  mean, 
With  twinkling  wrinkles  —  eh  ? 


v. 

Sea  sprinkles  wrinkles,  tinkles  light 

Shells'  bells  —  boy's  joys  that  hap  to  snap  ! 

It  's  just  sea's  fun,  breeze  done,  to  spite 

God's  rods  that  scourge  her  surge,  I  'd  urge  — 

Not  proper,  is  it  —  quite  ? 


A    Parody     Anthology 


VI. 

See,  fore  and  aft,  life's  craft  undone  ! 

Crank  plank,  split  spritsail  —  mark,  sea's  lark  ! 
That  gray  cold  sea's  old  sprees,  begun 

When  men  lay  dark  i'  the  ark,  no  spark, 
All  water — just  God's  fun  ! 


VII. 

Not  bright,  at  best,  his  jest  to  these 

Seemed  —  screamed,  shrieked,  wreaked   on  kin 

for  sin  ! 
When  for  mirth's  yell  earth's  knell  seemed  please 

Some  dumb  new  grim  great  whim  in  him 
Made  Jews  take  chalk  for  cheese. 

VIII. 

Could  God's  rods  bruise  God's  Jews  ?  Their  jowls 
Bobbed,  sobbed,  gaped,  aped,  the  plaice  in  face! 

None  heard,  't  is  odds,  his  —  God's  —  folk's  howls. 
Now,  how  must  I  apply,  to  try 

This  hookiest-beaked  of  owls  ? 


IX. 

Well,  I  suppose  God  knows  —  I  don't. 

Time's  crimes  mark  dark  men's  types,  in  stripes 
Broad  as  fen's  lands  men's  hands  were  wont 

Leave  grieve  unploughed,  though  proud  and  loud 
With  birds'  words  —  No!  he  won't! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


x. 

One  never  should  think  good  impossible. 

Eh  ?  say  I  'd  hide  this  Jew's  oil's  cruse  — 
His  shop  might  hold  bright  gold,  engrossible 

By  spy  —  spring's  air  takes  there  no  care 
To  wave  the  heath-flower's  glossy  bell ! 

XI. 

But  gold  bells  chime  in  time  there,  coined  — 
Gold  !      Old  Sphinx  winks  there  — c  Read  my 

screed  ! ' 
Doctrine  Jews  learn,  use,  burn  for,  joined 

(Through   new  craft's  stealth)  with  health  and 

wealth  — 
At  once  all  three  purloined  ! 

XII. 

I  rose  with  dawn,  to  pawn,  no  doubt, 

(Miss  this  chance,  glance  untried  aside  ?) 

John's  shirt,  my  —  no  !     Ay,  so  —  the  lout ! 
Let  yet  the  door  gape,  store  on  floor 

And  not  a  soul  about  ? 

XIII. 

Such  men  lay  traps,  perhaps  —  and  I  'm 

Weak  —  meek  —  mild  —  child     of    woe,    you 

know  ! 
But  theft,  I  doubt,  my  lout  calls  crime. 

Shrink?      Think!     Love's    dawn    in    pawn  — 

you  spawn 
Of  Jewry  !      Just  in  time  ! 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

\     2,8    ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WHITMAN 


AN  AMERICAN,  ONE  OF  THE  ROUGHS, 
A   KOSMOS 

NATURE,  continuous  Me ! 
Saltness,  and  vigorous,  never  torpi-yeast  of 
Me! 

Florid,  unceasing,  forever  expansive; 

Not  Schooled,  not  dizened,  not  washed  and  powd- 
ered ; 

Strait-laced  not  at  all ;  far  otherwise  than  polite ; 

Not  modest,  nor  immodest ; 

Divinely  tanned  and  freckled;  gloriously  unkempt; 

Ultimate  yet  unceasing ;  capricious  though  deter- 
mined ; 

Speak  as  thou  listeth,  and  tell  the  askers  that  which 
they  seek  to  know. 

Thy  speech  to  them  will  be  not  quite  intelligible. 

Never  mind  !   utter  thy  wild  commonplaces  ; 

Yawp  them  loudly,  shrilly  ; 

Silence  with  shrill  noise  the  lisps  of  the  foo-foos. 

Answer  in  precise  terms  of  barbaric  vagueness 

The  question  that  the  Fun    editor    hath    sparked 
through  Atlantic  cable 

To  W  .  .  T  W.  .  TM   .   .  N,  the  speaker  of 
the  pass-word  primeval ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  signaller  of  the  signal  of  democracy  ; 
The  seer  and  hearer  of  things  in  general ; 
The  poet  translucent ;  fleshy,  disorderly,  sensually 

inclined  ; 

Each  tag  and  part  of  whom  is  a  miracle. 
(Thirteen  pages  of  MS.  relating  to  Mr.  W.  .  t 

W.   .  tm  .  n  are  here  omitted.) 
Rhapsodically  state  the  fact  that  is  and  is  not ; 
That  is  not,  being  past ;  that  is,  being  eternal ; 
If  indeed  it  ever  was,  which  is  exactly  the  point  in 

question. 

Anonymous. 


CAMERADOS 

EVERYWHERE,  everywhere,  following  me  ; 
Taking  me  by  the  buttonhole,  pulling  off  my 
boots,  hustling  me  with  the  elbows ; 

Sitting  down  with  me  to  clams  and  the  chowder- 
kettle  ; 

Plunging  naked  at  my  side  into  the  sleek,  irascible 
surges  ; 

Soothing  me  with  the  strain  that  I  neither  permit 
nor  prohibit ; 

Flocking  this  way  and  that,  reverent,  eager,  orotund, 
irrepressible ; 

Denser  than  sycamore  leaves  when  the  north-winds 
are  scouring  Paumanok  ; 

What  can  I  do  to  restrain  them  ?  Nothing,  vci  ily 
nothing. 

Everywhere,  everywhere,  crying  aloud  for  me ; 

[    220] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Crying,  I  hear;  and  I  satisfy  them  out  of  my  nature; 

And  he  that  comes  at  the  end  of  the  feast  shall  find 
something  over. 

Whatever  they  want  I  give ;  though  it  be  some- 
thing else,  they  shall  have  it. 

Drunkard,  leper,  Tammanyite,  small-pox  and 
cholera  patient,  shoddy  and  codfish  million- 
natre, 

And  the  beautiful  young  men,  and  the  beautiful 
young  women,  all  the  same, 

Crowding,  hundreds  of  thousands,  cosmical  multi- 
tudes, 

Buss  me  and  hang  on  my  hips  and  lean  up  to  my 
shoulders, 

Everywhere  listening  to  my  yawp  and  glad  when- 
ever they  hear  it ; 

Everywhere  saying,  say  it,  Walt,  we  believe  it : 

Everywhere,  everywhere. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


IMITATION    OF   WALT   WHITMAN 

WHO  am  I  ? 
I  have  been  reading  Walt  Whitman,  and 
know. not  whether  he  be  me,  or  me  he  ;  — 
Or  otherwise! 
Oh,  blue  skies  !  oh,  rugged  mountains  !  oh,  mighty, 

rolling  Niagara  ! 

Oh,  chaos  and  everlasting  bosh.! 
I  am  a  poet;  I  swear  it !      If  you  do  not  believe  it 
you  are  a  dolt,  a  fool,  an  idiot ! 


A     Parody    Anthology 


Milton,  Shakespere,  Dante,  Tommy  Moore,  Pope, 
never,  but  Byron,  too,  perhaps,  and  last, 
not  least,  Me,  and  the  Poet  Close. 

We  send  our  resonance  echoing  down  the  adaman- 
tine canons  of  the  future  ! 

We  live  forever !  The  worms  who  criticise  us 
(asses  !)  laugh,  scoff,  jeer,  and  babble  — 
die! 

Serve  them  right. 

What  is  the  difference  between  Judy,  the  pride  of 
Fleet  Street,  the  glory  of  Shoe  Lane,  and 
Walt  Whitman  ? 

Start  not !  'T  is  no  end  of  a  minstrel  show  who 
perpends  this  query ; 

'T  is  no  brain-racking  puzzle  from  an  inner  page 
of  the  Family  Herald, 

No  charade,  acrostic  (double  or  single),  conun- 
drum, riddle,  rebus,  anagram,  or  other  guess- 
work. . 

I  answer  thus  :  We  both  write  truths  —  great,  stern, 
solemn,  unquenchable  truths  — couched  in 
more  or  less  ridiculous  language. 

I,  as  a  rule  use  rhyme,  he  does  not ;  therefore,  I 
am  his  Superior  (which  is  also  a  lake  in  his 
great  and  glorious  country). 

I  scorn,  with  the  unutterable  scorn  of  the  despiser 
of  pettiness,  to  take  a  mean  advantage  of 
him. 

He  writes,  he  sells,  he  is  read  (more  or  less);  why 
then  should  I  rack  my  brains  and  my  rhym- 
ing dictionary  ?  I  will  see  the  public  hanged 
first! 

[222] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  sing  of  America,  of  the  United  States,  of  the  stars 
and  stripes  of  Oskhosh,  of  Kalamazoo,  and 
of  Salt  Lake  City. 

I  sing  of  the  railroad  cars,  of  the  hotels,  of  the 
breakfasts,  the  lunches,  the  dinners,  and  the 
suppers ; 

Of  the  soup,  the  fish,  the  entrees,  the  joints,  the 
game,  the  puddings  and  the  ice-cream. 

I  sing  all  —  I  eat  all  —  I  sing  in  turn  of  Dr. 
Bluffem's  Antibilious  Pills. 

No  subject  is  too  small,  too  insignificant,  for 
Nature's  poet. 

I  sing  of  the  cocktail,  a  new  song  for  every  cock- 
tail, hundreds  of  songs,  hundreds  of  cock- 
tails. 

It  is  a  great  and  a  glorious  land  !  The  Mississippi, 
the  Missouri,  and  a  million  other  torrents 
roll  their  waters  to  the  ocean. 

It  is  a  great  and  glorious  land  !  The  Alleghanies, 
the  Catskills,  the  Rockies  (see  atlas  for  other 
mountain  ranges  too  numerous  to  mention) 
pierce  the  clouds  ! 

And  the  greatest  and  most  glorious  product  of  this 
great  and  glorious  land  is  Walt  Whitman; 

This  must  be  so,  for  he  says  it  himself. 

There  is  but  one  greater  than  he  between  the  ris- 
ing and  the  setting  sun. 

There  is  but  one  before  whom  he  meekly  bows  hi 
humbled  head. 

Oh,  great  and  glorious  land,  teeming  producer  of 
all  things,  creator  of  Niagara,  and  inventor 
of  Walt  Whitman, 

r  «s] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Erase  your  national  advertisements  of  liver  pads 
and  cures  for  rheumatism  from  your  public 
monuments,  and  inscribe  thereon  in  letters 
of  gold  the  name  Judy. 


IMITATION    OF   WALT   WHITMAN 

r  I  ^HE  clear  cool  note  of  the  cuckoo  which  has 

ousted  the  legitimate  nest-holder, 
The  whistle  of  the  railway  guard  despatching 
the  train  to  the  inevitable  collision, 
The  maiden's  monosyllabic  reply  to  a  polysyllabic 

proposal, 
The  fundamental  note  of  the  last  trump,  which  is 

presumably  D  natural ; 
All  of  these  are  sounds  to  rejoice  in,  yea  to  let  your 

ribs  re-echo  with.  • 

But  better  than  all  of  them  is  the  absolutely  last 
chord  of  the  apparently  inexhaustible  piano- 
forte player. 

J.  K.  Stephen. 


THE    POET   AND   THE   WOODLOUSE 

S AID  a  poet  to  a  woodlouse,  "  Thou  art  cer- 
tainly my  brother; 
I  discern  in  thee  the  markings  of  the  fingers 
of  the  Whole  •, 

[  224  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 

And  I  recognize,  in  spite  of  all  the  terrene-  smut 

and  smother, 

In    the  colors  shaded  off  thee,  the  suggestions 
of  a  soul. 

"  Yea,"  the  poet  said,  u  I  smell  thee  by  some. pas- 
sive divination, 
I   am  satisfied  with  insight  of  the  measure  of 

thine  house ; 
What  had  happened  I  conjecture,  in  a  blank  and 

rhythmic  passion, 

Had  the  aeons  thought  of  making  thee  a  man 
and  me  a  louse. 

u  The  broad  lives  of  upper  planets,  their  absorp- 
tion and  digestion, 
Food  and    famine,  health  and    sickness,  I  can 

scrutinize  and  test, 

Through  a  shiver  of   the  senses    comes    a    reso- 
nance of  question, 

And  by  proof  of  balanced  answer  I  decide  that 
I  am  best. 

"  Man  the  fleshly  marvel  always   feels    a  certain 

kind  of  awe  stick 
To  the  skirts   of  contemplation,  cramped  with 

nympholeptic  weight ; 
Feels  his   faint   sense  charred   and  branded  by  the 

touch  of  solar  caustic, 

On  the  forehead  of  his  spirit   feels  the  footprint 
of  a  Fate." 

[15]  r  225  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Notwithstanding    which,    O    poet,"    spake    the 

woodlouse,  very  blandly, 
"  I  am  likewise  the  created,  —  I  the  equipoise  of 

thee; 
I  the  particle,  the  atom,  I  behold  on  either  hand 

lie 

The  inane  of  measured  ages  that  were  embryos 
of  me, 

"I  am  fed  with  intimations,  I  am    clothed  with 

consequences, 

And  the  air  I    breathe   is  colored  with  apoca- 
lyptic blush ; 
Ripest-budded   odors  blossom  out  of  dim  chaotic 

stenches, 

And  the  Soul  plants  spirit-lilies  in  sick  leagues 
of  human  slush. 

UI  am  thrilled  half  cosmically  through  by  crypto- 

phantic  surgings, 
Till  the   rhythmic    hills  roar   silent   through    a 

spongious  kind  of  blee  ; 

And  earth's  soul  yawns  disembowelled  of  her  pan- 
creatic organs, 

Like  a  madrepore  if  mesmerized,  in  rapt  cata- 
lepsy. 

"And    I    sacrifice,  a    Levite;    and    I  palpitate,  a 

poet; 

Can  I  close  dead  ears  against  the  rush  and  reso- 
nance of  things  ? 

1 226] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Symbols  in  me  breathe  and   flicker  up  the  heights 

of  her  heroic  ; 

Earth's  worst  spawn,  you  said,  and  cursed   me  ? 
Look  !  approve  me  !   I  have  wings. 

"  Ah,  men's   poets  !   men's  conventions  crust  you 

round  and  swathe  you  mist-like, 
And  the  world's  wheels  grind  your  spirits  down 

the  dust  ye  overtrod ; 
We  stand  sinlessly  stark-naked  in  effulgence  of  the 

Christlight, 

And  our  polecat  chokes  not  cherubs ;  and  our 
skunk  smells  sweet  to  God. 

"  For  he  grasps  the  pale  Created  by  some  thousand 

vital  handles, 
Till  a  Godshine,  bluely  winnowed  through  the 

sieve  of  thunder-storms, 
Shimmers  up  the  non-existence  round  the  churning 

feet  of  angels ; 

And  the  atoms  of  that   glory  may  be  seraphs, 
being  worms. 

u  Friends,  your  nature  underlies  us  and  your  pulses 

overplay  us ; 
Ye,  with  social  sores  unbandaged,  can  ye  sing 

right  and  steer  wrong  ? 
For   the  transient   cosmic,  rooted  in   imperishable 

chaos, 

Must  be  kneaded  into  drastics  as  material  for  a 
song. 

[  "7  1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Eyes  once  purged  from  homebred  vapors  through 

humanitarian  passion 

See  that  monochrome  a  despot  through  a  demo- 
cratic prism ; 
Hands  that  rip  the  soul  up,  reeking   from  divine 

evisceration, 

Not    with    priestlike    oil    anoint    him,    but    a 
stronger-smelling   chrism. 

"  Pass,  O  poet,  retransfigured !     God,  the  psycho- 
metric rhapsode, 
Fills  with  fiery  rhythms  the  silence,  stings  the 

dark  with  stars  that  blink ; 
A.11  eternities   hang   round  him  like  an  old  man's 

clothes  collapsed, 
While    he    makes    his   mundane    music  —  AND 

HE  WILL  NOT  STOP,  I   THINK." 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


|    226    J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

THREE    LITTLE    FISHERS 

r  I  ^HREE  little  fishers  trudged  over  the  hill, 
•  Over  the  hill  in  the  sun's  broad  glare, 

With  rods  and  crooked  pins,  to  the  brook 

by  the  mill, 

While  three  fond   mothers  sought  them  every- 
where. 

For  boys  will  go  fishing,  though  mothers  deny. 
Watching  their  chance  they  sneak  ofF  on  the  sly 
To  come  safely  back  in  the  gloaming. 

Three  mothers  waited  outside  the  gate. 

Three  little  fishers,  tired,  sunburnt,  and  worn, 
Came  into  sight  as  the  evening  grew  late, 

Their  chubby  feet  bleeding,  their  clothing  all  torn, 
For  u  boys  will  be  boys"  — have  a  keen  eye  for 

fun, 
While  mothers  fret,  fume,  scold,  and  —  succumb, 

And  welcome  them  home  in  the  gloaming. 

Three  little  fishers  were  called  to  explain  — 

Each  stood  condemned,  with  his  thumb  in  his  eye, 
They  promised  never  to  do  so  again, 

And  were  hung  up  in  the  pantry  to  dry. 
Three  mothers  heaved  great  sighs  of  relief, 
An  end  had  been  put  to  their  magnified  grief, 
When  the  boys  came  home  in  the  gloaming. 

Frank  H.  Staufer. 
[  229  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE  THREE  POETS 

r  I  "NHREE  poets  went  sailing  down  Boston  Bay, 

All  into  the  East  as  the  sun  went  down. 
Each  felt  that  the  editors  loved  him  best, 
And  would  welcome  spring  poetry  in  Boston  town. 
For  poets  must  dream,  though  the  editors  frown ; 
Their  revel  in  visions  will  not  be  turned  down, 
Though  the  general  reader  is  moaning  ! 

Three  editors  climbed  to  the  loftiest  tower 
That  they  could  find  in  all  Boston  town. 
And    they    planned    to    conceal    themselves,  hour 

after  hour, 
Till  the  Sun  —  and  the  poets  —  had  both  gone 

down. 

For  spring  poets  must  write,  though  the  editors  rage. 
The  artistic  nature  must  thus  be  engaged, 
Though  the  publishers  all  are  groaning ! 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  Back  Bay  sand 
Just  after  the  first  Spring  Sun  went  down, 

And  the  Press  sat  down  to  a  banquet  grand 
In  honor  of  poets  no  more  in  the  town. 

For  poets  will  write  while  the  editors  sleep, 

Though  they  've  little  to  earn  and  nothing  to  keep, 
And  the  populace  all  are  moaning! 

Lilian  Whiting. 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER   MRS.  R.   H.    STODDARD 


THE  NETTLE 

IF  days  were  nights,  I  could  their  weight  endure, 
This  darkness  cannot  hide  from  me  the  plant 
I  seek ;  I  know  it  by  the  rasping  touch. 
The  moon  is  wrapped  in  bombazine  of  cloud  ; 
The  capes  project  like  crooked  lobster-shears 
Into  the  bobbery  of  the  waves  ;    the  marsh, 
At  ebb,  has  now  a  miserable  smell. 
I  will  not  be  delayed  nor  hustled  back, 
Though    every    wind    should   muss   my   outspread 

hair. 

I  snatch  the  plant  that  seems  my  coming  fate; 
I  pass  the  crinkled  satin  of  the  rose, 
The  violets,  frightened  out  of  all  their  wits, 
And  other  flowers,  to  me  so  commonplace, 
And  cursed  with  showy  mediocrity, 
To  cull  the  foliage  which  repels  and  stings. 
Weak  hands  may  bleed ;  but  mine  are  tough  with 

pride, 

And  I  but  smile  where  others  sob  and  screech. 
The  draggled  flounces  of  the  willow  lash 
My  neck ;   I  tread  upon  the  bouncing  rake, 
Which  bangs  me  sorely,  but  I  hasten  on, 
With  teeth  firm-set  as  biting  on  a  wire, 
And  feet  and  fingers  clinched  in  bitter  pain, 
t  «*'    1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


This,  few  would  comprehend  ;  but,  if  they  did, 
I  should  despise  myself  and  merit  scorn. 
We  all  are  riddles  which  we  cannot  guess ; 
Each  has  his  gimcracks  and  his  thingumbobs, 
And  mine  are  night  and  nettles,  mud  and  mist, 
Since  others  hate  them,  cowardly  avoid. 
Things  are  mysterious  when  you  make  them  so, 
And  the  slow-pacing  days  are  mighty  queer; 
But  Fate  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all, 
And  something  somehow  turns  up  in  the  end. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER  BAYARD  TAYLOR 


HADRAMAUT 

^  I  ^HE  grand  conglomerate  hills  of  Araby, 

That  stand  empanoplied  in  utmost  thought, 
With  dazzling  ramparts  front  the  Indian  sea, 
Down  there  in  Hadramaut. 

The  sunshine  smashes  in  the  doors  of  morn 

And  leaves  them  open ;  there  the  vibrant  calm 
Of  life  magniloquent  pervades  forlorn 
The  giant  fronds  of  palm. 

The  cockatoo  upon  the  upas  screams; 

The  armadillo  fluctuates  o'er  the  hill ; 
And  like  a  flag,  incarnadined  in  dreams, 
All  crimsonly  I  thrill ! 

There  have  iconoclasts  no  power  to  harm, 

So,  folded  grandly  in  translucent  mist, 
[  let  the  lights  stream  down  my  jasper  arm, 
And  o'er  my  opal  fist. 

An  Adamite  of  old,  primeval  Earth, 

I  see  the  Sphinx  upon  the  porphyry  shore, 
Deprived  of  utterance  ages  ere  her  birth, 
As  I  am,  —  only  more! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Who  shall  ensnare  me  with  invested  gold, 

Or  prayer  symbols,  backed  like  malachite  ? 
Let  gaunt  reformers  objurgate  and  scold, 
I  gorge  me  with  delight. 

I  do  not  yearn  for  what  I  covet  most ; 

I  give  the  winds  the  passionate  gifts  I  sought ; 
And  slumber  fiercely  on  the  torrid  coast, 
Down  there  in  Hadramaut ! 

Bayard  Taylor* 


[  234 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WILLIAM  MORRIS 


ESTUNT   THE   GRIFF 

(Argument :  Showing  bow  a  man  of  England^  hearing 
from  certain  Easterlings  of  the  glories  of  their 
land,  set  sail  to  rule  it) 

AND  so  unto  the  End  of  Graves  came  he, 
Where  nigh  the  staging,  ready  for  the  sea, 
Oarless  and  sailless  lay  the  galley's  bulk, 
Albeit  smoke  did  issue  from  the  hulk 
And  fell  away,  across  the  marshes  dun, 
Into  the  visage  of  the  wan-white  sun. 
And  seaward  ran  the  river,  cold  and  gray, 
Bearing  the  brown-sailed  Eastland  boats  away 
'Twixt  the  low  shore  and  shallow  sandy  spit. 
Yet  he,  being  sad,  took  little  heed  of  it, 
But  straightly  fled  toward  the  misty  beach, 
And  hailed  in  choked  and  swiftly  spoken  speech 
A  shallop,  that  for  men's  conveyance  lay 
Hard  by  the  margin  of  that  watery  way. 
Then  many  that  were  in  like  evil  plight — 
Sad  folk,  with  drawn,  dumb  lips  and  faces  white,    . 
That  writhed  themselves  into  a  hopeless  smile  — 
Crowded  the  shallop,  making  feint  the  while 
Of  merriment  and  pleasure  at  that  tide, 
Though  oft  upon  the  laughers'  lips  there  died 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  jest,  and  in  its  place  there  came  a  sigh, 
So  that  men  gat  but  little  good  thereby, 
And,  shivering,  clad  themselves  about  with  furs. 
Strange  faces  of  the  swarthy  outlanders 
Looked  down  upon  the  shallop  as  she  threw 
The  sullen  waters  backward  from  her  screw 
And,  running  forward  for  some  little  space, 
Stayed  featly  at  the  galley's  mounting-place, 
Where  slowly  these  sad-faced  landsmen  went 
Crabwise  and  evil-mouthed  with  discontent, 
Holding  to  sodden  rope  and  rusty  chain 
And  bulwark  that  was  wetted  with  the  rain  : 
For  'neath  their  feet  the  black  bows  rose  and  fell, 
Nor  might  a  man  walk  steadfastly  or  well 
Who  had  not  hand  upon  a  rail  or  rope ; 
And  Estunt  turned  him  landward,  and  wan  hope 
Grew  on  his  spirit  as  an  evil  mist, 
Thinking  of  loving  lips  his  lips  had  kissed 
An  hour  since,  and  how  those  lips  were  sweet 
An  hour  since,  far  off  in  Fenchurch  Street. 
Then,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath  most  like  a  sigh, 
He  watched  the  empty  shallop  shoreward  hie; 
Then  turned  him  round  the  driving  rain  to  face, 
And  saw  men  heave  the  anchor  from  its  place ; 
Whereat,  when  by  the  river-mouth,  the  ship 
Began,  amid  the  waters'  strife  to  dip, 
His  soul  was  heaved  between  his  jaws  that  day, 
And  to  the  East  the  good  ship  took  her  way. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  ALFRED  AUSTIN 


I 


AN  ODE 

SING  a  song  of  sixpence,  and  of  rye 

.  A  pocketful  —  recalling,  sad  to  state, 
The  niggardly  emoluments  which  I 
Receive  as  Laureate  ! 


Also  I  sing  of  blackbirds —  in  the  mart 
At  four-a-penny.     Thus,  in  other  words, 

The  sixpence  which  I  mentioned  at  the  start 
Purchased  two  dozen  birds. 

So  four-and-twenty  birds  were  deftly  hid  — 
Or  shall  we  say,  were  skilfully  concealed  ?  — 

Within  the  pie-dish.     When  they  raised  the  lid, 
What  melody  forth  pealed ! 

Now  I  like  four-and-twenty  blackbirds  sing, 
With  all  their  sweetness,  all  their  rapture  keen  ; 

And  is  n't  this  a  pretty  little  thing 
To  set  before  the  Queen? 

The  money-counting  monarch  —  sordid  man!  — 
His  wife,  who  robbed  the  little  busy  bees, 

I  disregard.     In  fact  a  poet  can 
But  pity  folks  like  these. 

[  '37.] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  maid  was  in  the  garden.     Happy  maid ! 

Her  choice  entitles  her  to  rank  above 
Master  and  Mistress.     Gladly  she  surveyed 

The  Garden  That  I  Love ! 

—  Where  grow  my  daffodils,  anemones, 
Tulips,  auriculas,  chrysanthemums, 

Cabbages,  asparagus,  sweet  peas, 
With  apples,  pears,  and  plums  — 

(That 's  a  parenthesis.      The  very  name 
Of  garden  really  carries  one  astray  !) 

But  suddenly  a  feathered  ruffian  came, 
And  stole  her  nose  away. 

Eight  stanzas  finished  !    So  my  Court  costume 
I  lay  aside:   the  Laureate,  I  suppose, 

Has  done  his  part ;  the  man  may  now  resume 
His  journalistic  prose. 

Anthony  C.  Deane. 


[  '3.8  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  W.  S.  GILBERT 


ODE  TO  A  LONDON  FOG 

• 

ROLL  on,  thick  haze,  roll  on! 
Through  each  familiar  way 
Roll  on  ! 

What  though  I  must  go  out  to-day  ? 
What  though  my  lungs  are  rather  queer  ? 
What  though  asthmatic  ills  I  fear  ? 
What  though  my  wheeziness  is  clear? 
Never  you  mind  ! 
Roll  on  ! 

Roll  on,  thick  haze,  roll  on  ! 
Through  street  and  square  and  lane 

Roll  on  ! 

It's  true  I  cough  and  cough  again; 
It's  true  I  gasp  and  puff  and  blow; 
It 's  true  my  trip  may  lay  me  low  — 
But  that's  not  your  affair,  youjcnow. 
Never  you  mind  ! 

Roll  on ! 

Anonymous 


A    Parody    Anthology 


PRESIDENT    GARFIELD 

WHEN  he  was  a  lad  he  served  a  term 
On  a  big  canal  with  a  boatman's  firm ; 
With  a  heart  so  free  and  a  will  so  strong, 
On  the  towpath  drove  two  mules  along. 
And  he  drove  those  mules  so  carefullee 
He  's  a  candidate  now  for  the  Presidencee. 

As  a  driver  boy  he  made  such  a  mark 
He  came  to  the  deck  of  the  inland  barque 
'  And  all  of  the  perils  to  boat  and  crew. 
He  stood  at  the  helm  and  guided  thro'. 
He  stood  at  the  helm  so  manfullee 
He  's  a  candidate  now  for  the  Presidencee. 

He  did  so  well  with  the  helm  and  mules, 
They  made  him  a  teacher  of  district  schools; 
And  when  from  college  in  a  bran  new  suit, 
A  Greek  Professor  at  the  Institute, 
Where  Greek  and  Latin  he  taught  so  free 
He  's  a  candidate  now  for  the  Presidencee. 

• 

Now  boys  who  cherish  ambitious  schemes, 
Though  now  you  may  be  but  drivers  of  teams, 
Look  well  to  the  work  you  may  chance  to  do, 
And  do  it  with  a  hand  that  is  kind  and  true. 
Whatever  you  do,  do  it  faithfullee, 
And  you  may  aspire  to  the  Presidencee. 

Anonymou** 
\.  24°  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


PROPINQUITY   NEEDED 

/^ELESTINE  Silvousplait  Justine  de  Mouton 

I  Rosalie, 

^^^  A  coryphee  who  lived  and  danced  in  naughty, 

gay  Paree, 
Was  every  bit  as  pretty  as  a  French  girl  e'er  can  be 

(Which  is  n't  saying  much). 

Maurice   Boulanger  (there 's  a  name  that    would 

adorn  a  king), 
But   Morris  Baker  was  the  name  they  called  the 

man  I  sing. 
He  lived  in  New  York  City  in  the  Street  that 's 

labeled  Spring 

(Chosen  because  it  rhymed). 

Now  Baker  was  a  lonesome  youth  and  wanted  to 

be  wed, 

And  for  a  wife,  all  over  town  he  hunted,  it  is  said  ; 
And    up    and    down    Fifth     Avenue    he    ofttimes 

wandered 

(He  was  a  peripatetic  Baker,  he  was). 

And  had  he  met  Celestine,  not  a  doubt  but-Cupid's 

darts 
Would  in  a  trice  have  wounded  both  of  their  fond, 

loving  hearts ; 

But  he  has  never  left  New  York  to  stray  in  foreign 
parts 

(Because  he  has  n't  the  price). 
[16]  [  241  1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  she  has  r\£ver  left  Paree  and  so,  of  course,  you 

see 
There  's  not  the  slightest  chance  at  all  she  '11  marry 

Morris  B. 

For  love  to  get  well  started,  really  needs  propinquity 
(Hence  my  title). 

Charles  Eattell  Loomi:. 


242 


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AFTER  R.   H.    STODDARD 


THE   CANTELOPE 

SIDE  by  side  in  the  crowded  streets, 
Amid  its  ebb  and  flow, 
We  walked  together  one  autumn  morn  ; 
('T  was  many  years  ago  !) 

The  markets  blushed  with  fruits  and  flowers  \ 

(Both  Memory  and  Hope  !  ) 
You  stopped  and.  bought  me  at  the  stall, 

A  spicy  cantelope. 

We  drained  together  its  honeyed  wine, 

We  cast  the  seeds  away  ; 
I  slipped  and  fell  on  the  moony  rinds, 

And  you  took  me  home  on  a  dray  ! 

The  honeyed  wine  of  your  love  is  drained ; 

I  limp  from  the  fall  I  had ; 
The  snow-flakes  muffle  the  empty  stall, 

And  everything  is  sad. 

The  sky  is  an  inkstand,  upside  down, 
It  splashes  the  world  with  gloom ; 
The  earth  is  full  of  skeleton  bones, 
And  the  sea  is  a  wobbling  tomb  ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 
t'43] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  A.   A.   PROCTOR 


THE   LOST   VOICE 

SEATED  at  Church  in  the  winter 
I  was  frozen  in  every  limb ; 
And  the  village  choir  shrieked  wildly 
Over  a  noisy  hymn. 

I  do  not  know  what  they  were  singing, 
For  while  I  was  watching  them 

Our  Curate  began  his  sermon 

With  the  sound  of  a  slight  "  Ahem  !  " 

It  frightened  the  female  portion, 

Like  the  storm  which  succeeds  a  calm, 

Both  maidens  and  matrons  heard  it 
With  a  touch  of  inane  alarm. 

It  told  them  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
Cold,  cough,  and  neuralgic  strife, 

Bronchitis,  and  influenza 

All  aimed  at  our  Curate's  life. 

It  linked  all  perplex'd  diseases 

Into  one  precious  frame; 
They  trembled  with  rage  if  a  sceptic 

Attempted  to  ask  its  name. 
[  244  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

They  have  wrapped  him  in  mustard  plasters, 

Stuffed  him  with  food  and  wine, 
They  have  fondled,  caressed,  and  nursed  him, 

With  sympathy  divine. 

It  may  be  that  other  Curates 

Will  preach  in  that  Church  to  them, 

Will  there  be  every  time,  Good  Heavens  ! 
Such  a  fuss  for  a  slight  —  Ahem  ! 

A.  H.  <! 


THE   LOST   APE 


one  day  on  an  organ, 
A  monkey  was  ill  at  ease, 
When  his  fingers  wandered  idly, 
In  search  of  the  busy  fleas. 
I  knew  not  what  he  was  slaying, 

Or  what  he  was  dreaming  then, 
But  a  sound  burst  forth  from  that  organ, 
Not  at  all  like  a  grand  Amen. 

It  came  through  the  evening  twilight 

Like  the  close  of  the  feline  psalm, 
But  the  melody  raised  by  their  voices 

Compared  to  this  noise  was  balm  ! 
It  was  worse  than  Salvation's  Sorrow, 

With  their  band  of  drum  and  fife, 
And  cut,  like  an  evening  "  Echo," 

The  Tit-Bits  out  of  "  Life." 

[  MS  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  upset  my  table  and  tea  things, 

And  left  not  one  perfect  piece; 
I  gazed  at  the  wreck  in  silence, 

Not  loth,  but  unable  to  speak  ! 
Then  I  sought  him,  alas  !   all  vainly, 

The  source  of  that  terrible  whine, 
With  his  cracked  and  tuneless  organ, 

And  its  melodies  undivine. 

Of  course  there  was  no  policeman 

To  move  him  away,  —  and  men 
Who  grind  organs  smile  demurely 

At  your  curses,  and  smile  again. 
It  may  be  that  I  could  choke  him  — 

Could  kill  him  —  but  organ  men, 
If  you  kill  a  dozen  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  come  again  ! 

J.  W.  G. 


THE   LOST   WORD 

BATED  one  day  at  the  typewriter, 

I  was  weary  of  a's  and  e's, 
And  my  fingers  wandered  wildly 
Over  the  consonant  keys. 


I  know  not  what  I  was  writing, 
With  that  thing  so  like  a  pen; 

But  I  struck  one  word  astounding  — 
Unknown  to  the  speech  of  men. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


It  flooded  the  sense  of  my  verses, 
Like  the  break  of  a  tinker's  dam, 

And  I  felt  as  one  feels  when  the  printer 
Of  your  u  infinite  calm  "  makes  clam. 

It  mixed  up  s's  and  x's 

Like  an  alphabet  coming  to  strife. 
It  seemed  the  discordant  echo 

Of  a  row  between  husband  and  wife. 

It  brought  a  perplexed  meaning 

Into  my  perfect  piece, 
And  set  the  machinery  creaking 

As  though  it  were  scant  of  grease. 

I  have  tried,  but  I  try  it  vainly, 

The  one  last  word  to  divine 
Which  came  from  the  keys  of  my  typewriter 

And  so  would  pass  as  mine. 

It  may  be  some  other  typewriter 

Will  produce  that  word  again, 
It  may  be,  but  only  for  others  — 

/shall  write  henceforth  with  a  pen. 

C.  H.  Webb. 


I  247 


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AFTER  GEORGE   MEREDITH 

AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE    COCK 
(FRENCH  STYLE,  1898) 

(Being  an  Ode  in  further  u  Contribution  to  the  Song 
of  French  History"  dedicated,  without  malice  or 
permission^  to  Mr.  George  Meredith} 


ROOSTER  her  sign, 
Rooster  her  pugnant  note,  she  struts 
Evocative,  amazon  spurs  aprick  at  heel ; 
Nid-nod  the  authentic  stump 
Of  the  once  ensanguined  comb  vermeil  as  wine; 
With  conspuent  doodle-doo  0 

Hails  breach  o'  the  hectic  dawn  of  yon  New  Year, 
Last  issue  up  to  date 
Of  quiverful  Fate 

Evolved  spontaneous;  hails  with  tenant  trump 
The  spiriting  prime  o'  the  clashed  carillon-peal ; 
Ruffling  her  caudal  plumes  derisive  of  scuts ; 
Inconscient  how  she  stalks  an  immarcessibly  absurd 
Bird. 

ii 

Mark  where  her  Equatorial  Pioneer 

Delirant  on  the  tramp  goes  littoralwise. 

His  Flag  at  furl,  portmanteaued  ;  drains  to  the  dregs 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  penultimate  brandy-bottle,  coal-on-the-head- 

piece  gift 

Of  who  avenged  the  Old  Sea-Rover's  smirch. 
Marchant  he  treads  the  ail-along  of  inarable  drift 
On  dubiously  connivent  legs, 
The  facile  prey  of  predatory  flies ; 
Panting  for  further;  sworn  to  lurch 
Empirical  on  to  the  Menelik-buffered,  enhavened 

blue, 
Rhyming  —  see  Cantique  I.  —  with  doodle-doo. 

in 

Infuriate  she  kicked  against  Imperial  fact ; 

Vulnant  she  felt 

What  pin-stab  should  have  stained  Another's  pelt 

Puncture  her  own  Colonial  lung-balloon, 

Volant  to  nigh  meridian.     Whence  rebuffed, 

The  perjured  Scythian  she  lacked 

At   need's  pinch,  sick  with  spleen  of  the  rudely 

cuffed 

Below  her  breath  she  cursed  ;  she  cursed  the  hour 
When  on  her  spring  for  him  the  young  Tyrannical 

broke 

Amid  the  unhallowed  wedlock's  vodka-shower, 
She  passionate,  he  dispassionate ;  tricked 
Her  wits  to  eye-blind  ;  borrowed  the  ready  as  for 

dower ; 

Till  from  the  trance  of  that  Hymettus-moon 
She  woke, 

A  nuptial-knotted  derelict ; 
Pensioned  with  Rescripts  other  aid  declined 
By  the  plumped  leech  saturate  urging  Peace 


A    Parody    Anthology 


In  guise  of  heavy-armed  Gospeller  to  men, 
Tyrannical  unto  fraternal  equal  liberal,  her.      Not 

she; 

Not  till  Alsace  her  consanguineous  find 
What  red  deteutonising  artillery 
Shall  shatter  her  beer-reek  alien  police 
The  just-now  pluripollent  ;   not  till  then. 

IV 

iMore  pungent  yet  the  esoteric  pain 
Squeezing  her  pliable  vitals  nourishes  feud 
Insanely  grumous,  grumously  insane. 
For  lo  ! 

Past  common  balmly  on  the  Bordereau, 
Churns  she  the  skim  o'  the  gutter's  crust 

o  •  • 

With   Anti-Judaic  various  carmagnole, 
Whooped  praise  of  the  Anti-Just; 
Her  boulevard  brood 

Gyratory  in  convolvements  militant-mad ; 
Theatrical  of  faith  in  the  Belliform, 
Her  Og, 

Her  Monstrous.      Fled  what  force  she  had 
To  buckle  the  jaw-gape,  wide  agog 
For  the  Preconcerted  One, 
The  Anticipated,  ripe  to  clinch  the  whole  ; 
Queen-bee  to  hive  the  hither  and  thither  v:lan 
swarm. 

Bides  she  his  coming  ;  adumbrates  the  new 

Expurgatorial  Divine, 

Her  final  effulgent  Avatar, 

Postured  outside  a  trampling  mastodon 

[  »S»  3 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Black  as  her  Baker's  charger ;   towering  ;    visibly 

gorged 

With  blood  of  traitors.      Knee-grip  stiff, 
Spine  straightened,  on  he  rides  ; 
Embossed  the  Patriot's  brow  with  hieroglyph 
Of  martial  dossiers,  nothing  forged 
About  him  save  his  armour.     So  she  bides 
Voicing  his  advent  indeterminably  far, 
Rooster  her  sign, 
Rooster  her  conspuent  doodle-doo. 


Behold  her,  pranked  with  spurs  for  bloody  sport, 

How  she  acclaims, 

A  crapulous  chanticleer, 

B.each  of  the  hectic  dawn  of  yon  New  Year. 

Not  yet  her  fill  of  rumours  sucked  ; 

Inebriate  of  honour  ;  blushfully  wroth  ; 

Tireless  to  play  her  old  primeval  games  ; 

Her  plumage  preened  the  yet  unplucked 

Like  sails  of  a  galleon,  rudder  hard  amort 

With  crepitant  mast 

Fronting  the  hazard  to  dare  of  a  dual  blast 

The  intern  and  the  extern,  blizzards  both. 

Owen  Seaman 


A     Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  DANTE  GABRIEL 
ROSSETTI 

A   CHRISTMAS   WAIL 

(Not  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rosetti) 

ON  Christmas  day  I  dined  with  Brown. 
(  Ob  the  dinner  was  fine  to  see  /) 
I  drove  to  his  house,  right  merrily  down, 
To  a  western  square  of  London  town. 

I  moan  and  I  cry,  Woe  's  me  /) 


T77s  dined  off  turkey  and  Christmas  beef: 

(  Oh  the  dinner  was  fine  to  see  /) 
My  anguish  is  sore  and  my  comfort  's  brief, 
And  nought  but  blue  pills  can  ease  my  grief, 
(As  I  moan  and  I  cry,  Woe  's  me  /) 

We  gorged  plum-pudding  and  hot  mince  pies, 
(Oh  the  dinner  was  fine  to.  see  /) 

And  other  nameless  atrocities, 

The  weight  of  which  on  my  —  bosom  lies. 
(And  I  moan  and  I  cry,  Woe  9s  me  !  ) 

We  drank  dry  Clicquot  and  rare  old  port, 

(  Ob  the  dinner  was  fine  to  see  /) 
And  I  pledged  my  host  for  a  right  good  sorr 
In  bumpers  of  both,  for  I  never  thought 
(/  should  moan  and  cry,  Woe  's  me  /) 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  I  woke  next  day  with  a  fearful  head, 

(Ob  that  dinmr  was  fine  to  see  /) 
And  on  my  chest  is  a  weight  like  Jead, 
And  I  frequently  wish  that  I  were  dead, 
(And  I  moan  and  I  cry,  Woe  's  me  /) 

And  as  for  Brown  —  why  the  truth  to  tell  — 

( Ob  that  dinner  was  fine  to  see  /) 
I  hate  him  now  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
Though  before  I  loved  him  passing  well, 
(And  I  moan  and  I  cry,  Woe  9s  me  /) 

Anonymous. 

BALLAD 

r  I  ^HE  auld  wife  sat  at  her  ivied  door 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese), 
A  thing  she  had  frequently  done  before, 
And  her  spectacles  lay  on  her  apron'd  knees. 

The  piper  he  piped  on  the  hill-top  high 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese), 

Till  the  cow   said   "  I   die,"  and  the  goose  ask'd 

«  Why  ?  " 
And  the  dog  said  nothing,  but  search'd  for  fleas. 

The  farmer  he  strode  through  the  square  farmyard 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese); 

His  last  brew  of  ale  was  a  trifle  hard  — 

The  connection  of  which  with  the  plot  one  sees. 

The  farmer's  daughter  had  frank  blue  eyes 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) ; 

She  hears  the  rooks  caw  in  the  witidy  skies, 
As  she  sits  at  her  lattice  and  shells  her  peas. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  farmer's  daughter  hath  ripe  red  lips 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) ; 

If  you  try  to  approach  her,  away  she  skips 
Over  tables  and  chairs  with  apparent  ease. 

The  farmer's  daughter  hath  soft  brown  hair 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese), 

And  I  met  with  a  ballad,  I  can't  say  where, 
Which  wholly  consisted  of  lines  like  these. 

PART  II 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  dimpled  cheeks 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese), 

And  spake  not  a  word.     While  a  lady  speaks 
There  is  hope,  but  she  did  n't  even  sneeze. 

She  sat,  with  her  hands  'neath  her  crimson  cheeks 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese); 

She  gave  up  mending  her  father's  breeks, 
And  let  the  cat  roll  in  her  new  chemise. 

She  sat,  with  her  hands  'neath  her  burning  cheeks 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese), 

And  gazed  at  the  piper  for  thirteen  weeks; 
Then  she  follow'd  him  out  o'er  the  misty  leas. 

Her  sheep  follow'd  her,  as  their  tails  did  them 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese), 
And  this  song  is  consider'd  a  perfect  gem, 

And  as  to  the  Tneaning,  it  Y  what  you  please. 

Charles  S.  Calverley. 
F  2H  ] 


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CIMABUELLA 

FAIR-TINTED  cheeks,  clear  eyelids  drawn 
In  crescent  curves  above  the  light 
Of  eyes,  whose  dim,  uncertain  dawn 
Becomes  not  day  :   a  forehead  white 
Beneath  long  yellow  heaps  of  hair: 
She  is  so  strange  she  must  be  fair. 

Had  she  sharp,  slant-wise  wings  outspread, 
She  were  an  angel;  but  she  stands 

With  flat  dead  gold  behind  her  head, 
And  lilies  in  her  long  thin  hands  : 

Her  folded  mantle,  gathered  in, 

Falls  to  her  feet  as  it  were  tin. 

Her  nose  is  keen  as  pointed  flame ; 

Her  crimson  lips  no  thing  express; 
And  never  dread  of  saintly  blame 

Held  down  her  heavy  eyelashes : 
To  guess  what  she- were  thinking  of 
Precludeth  any  meaner  love. 

An  azure  carpet,  fringed  with  gold, 

Sprinkled  with  scarlet  spots,  I  laid 
Before  her  straight,  cool  feet  unrolled ; 

But  she  nor  sound  nor  movement  made 
(Albeit  I  heard  a  soft,  shy  smile, 
Printing  her  neck  a  moment's  while). 
[  '55  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  I  was  shamed  through  all  my  mind 
For  that  she  spake  not,  neither  kissed, 

But  stared  right  past  me.      Lo  !  behind 
Me  stood,  in  pink  and  amethyst, 

Sword-girt  and  velvet-doubleted, 

A  tall,  gaunt  youth,  with  frowzy  head. 

Wide  nostrils  in  the  air,  dull  eyes, 

Thick  lips  that  simpered,  but,  ah  me ! 

I  saw,  with  most  forlorn  surprise, 
He  was  the  Thirteenth  Century, 

I  but  the  Nineteenth  ;  then  despair 

Curdled  beneath  my  curling  hair. 

0  Love  and  Fate  !      How  could  she  choose 
My  rounded  outlines,  broader  brain, 

And  my  resuscitated  Muse  ? 

Some  tears  she  shed,  but  whether  pain 
Or  joy  in  him  unlocked  their  source, 

1  could  not  fathom  which,  of  course. 

But  I  from  missals  quaintly  bound, 
With  cither  and  with  clavichord, 

Will  sing  her  songs  of  sovran  sound  : 
Belike  her  pity  will  afford 

Such  fain  return  as  suits  a  saint 

So  sweetly  done  in  verse  and  paint. . 

Bayard  Taylor 


A     Parody    Anthology 


THE  POSTER  GIRL 

f  I  ^HE  blessed  Poster  girl  leaned  out 

From  a  pinky-purple  heaven. 
One  eye  was  red  and  one  was  green; 
Her  bang  was  cut  uneven  ; 
She  had  three  ringers  on  her  hand, 

And  the  hairs  on  her  head  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  sunflowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  heavy  Turkish  portiere 

Was  very  neatly  worn  ; 
And  the  hat  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow,  like  canned  corn. 

It  was  a  kind  of  wobbly  wave 

That  she  was  standing  on, 
And  high  aloft  she  flung  a  scarf 

That  must  have  weighed  a  ton ; 
And  she  was  rather  tall — at  least 

She  reached  up  to  the  sun. 

She  curved  and  writhed,  and  then  she  said. 

Less  green  of  speech  than  blue : 
u  Perhaps  I  am  absurd —  perhaps 

I  don't  appeal  to  you; 
But  my  artistic  worth  depends 

Upon  the  point  of  view." 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  saw  her  smile,  although  her  eyes 

Were  only  smudgy  smears ; 
And  then  she  swished  her  swirling  arms, 

And  wagged  her  gorgeous  ears. 
She  sobbed  a  blue-and-green-checked  sob, 

And  wept  some  purple  tears. 

Carolyn  Wells. 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER  JEAN  INGELOW 


LOVERS,  AND    A   REFLECTION 

I"N  moss-prankt  dells  which  the  sunbeams  flatter 
(And   heaven    it    knoweth  what    that    may 
mean ; 
Meaning,  however,  is  no  great  matter), 

Where  woods  are  a-tremble,  with  rifts  atween  ; 

Thro'  God's  own  heather  we  wonn'd  together, 
I  and  my  Willie  (O  love  my  love)  : 

I  need  hardly  remark  it  was  glorious  weather, 
And  flitterbats  waver'd  alow,  above : 

Boats  were  curtseying,  rising,  bowing, 
(Boats  in  that  climate  are  so  polite), 

And  sands  were  a  ribbon  of  green  endowing, 
And  oh,  the  sundazzle  on  bark  and  bight ! 

Thro'  the  rare  red  heather  we  danced  together, 
(O  love  my  Willie  !)  and  smelt  for  flowers  : 

I  must  mention  again  it  was  gorgeous  weather, 
Rhymes  are  so  scarce  in  this  world  of  ours : 

By  rises  that  flush'd  with  their  purple  favors, 
Thro'  becks  that  brattled  o'er  grasses  sheen, 

We  walked  and  waded,  we  two  young  shavers, 
Thanking  our  stars  we  were  both  so  green. 

' 


A     Parody    Anthology 


We  journeyed  in  parallels,  I  and  Willie, 

In  fortunate  parallels  !      Butterflies, 
Hid  in  weltering  shadows  of  daffodilly 

Or  marjoram,  kept  making  peacock  eyes  : 

Songbirds  darted  about,  some  inky 

As  coal,  some  snowy  (I  ween)  as  curds ; 

Or  rosy  as  pinks,  or  as  roses  pinky —  • 

They  reck  of  no  eerie  To-come,  those  birds  ! 

But  they  skim  over  bents  which  the  millstream 
washes, 

Or  hang  in  the  lift  'neath  a  white  cloud's  hem  ; 
They  need  no  parasols,  no  goloshes ; 

And  good  Mrs.  Trimmer  she  feedeth  them. 

Then  we  thrid  God's  cowslips  (as  erst  His  heather) 
That  endowed  the  wan  grass  with  their  golden 
blooms  ; 

And  snapt  —  (it  was  perfectly  charming  weather)  — 
Our  fingers  at  Fate  and  her  goodness-glooms  : 

And  Willie  'gan  sing  (oh,~his  notes  were  fluty  ; 
Wafts   fluttered  them  out  to  the  white-winged 

sea)  — 
Something  made  up  of  rhymes  that  have  done  much 

duty, 
Rhymes  (better  to  put  it)  of  "  ancientry  :  " 

Bowers  of  flowers  encountered  showers 

In  William's  carol  —  (O  love  my  Willie  !) 

Then  he  bade  sorrow  borrow  from  blithe  to-morrow 
I  quite  forget  what  —  say  a  daffodilly  : 


A    Parody    Anthology 


A  nest  in  a  hollow,  u  with  buds  to  follow," 
I  think  occurred  next  in  his  nimble  strain  ; 

And  clay  that  was  "  kneaden  "  of  course  in  Eden  — 
A  rhyme  most  novel,  I  do  maintain : 

Mists,  bones,  the  singer  himself,  love-stories, 
And  all  least  furlable  things  got  u  furled ;  " 

Not  with  any  design  to  conceal  their  u  glories," 
But  simply  and  solely  to  rhyme  with  "  world." 


O  if  billows  and  pillows  and  hours  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  brave  rhymes  of  an  elder  day, 

Could  be  furled  together,  this  genial  weather, 
And  carted  or  carried  on  "wafts"  away, 

Nor  ever  again  trotted  out  —  ah  me  ! 

How  much  fewer  volumes  of  verse  there  'd  be  ! 

Charles  S.  Calverley. 


THE   SHRIMP -GATHERERS 

SCARLET  spaces  of  sand  and  ocean, 
Gulls  that  circle  and  winds  that  blow  ; 
Baskets  and  boats  and  men  in  motion, 
Sailing  and  scattering  to  and  fro. 

Girls  are  waiting,  their  wimples  adorning 

With  crimson  sprinkles  the  broad  gray  flood 

And  down  the  beach  the  blush  of  the  morning 
Shines  reflected  from  moisture  and  mud. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Broad  from  the  yard  the  sail  hangs  limpy; 

Lightly  the  steersman  whistles  a  lay ; 
Pull  with  a  will,  for  the  nets  are  shrimpy, 

Pull  with  a  whistle,  our  hearts  are  gay  ! 

Tuppence  a  quart ;  there  are  more  than  fifty  ! 

Coffee  is  certain,  and  beer  galore ; 
Coats  are  corduroy,  minds  are  thrifty, 

Won't  we  go  it  on  sea  and  shore  ! 

See,  behind,  how  the  hills  are  freckled 

With  low  white  huts,  where  the  lasses  bide 

See,  before,  how  the  sea  is  speckled 

With  sloops  and  schooners  that  wait  the  tide 

Yarmouth  fishers  may  rail  and  roister, 

Tyne-side  boys  may  shout,  u  Give  way  !  " 

Let  them  dredge  for  the  lobster  and  oyster, 
Pink  and  sweet  are  our  shrimps  to-day ! 

Shrimps  and  the  delicate  periwinkle, 
Such  are  the  sea-fruits  lasses  love ; 

Ho  !  to  your  nets  till  the  blue  stars  twinkle, 
And  the  shutterless  cottages  gleam  above  ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


262] 


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AFTER   CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 


REMEMBER 

REMEMBER  it,  although  you  're  far  away  — 
Too  far  away  more  fivers  yet  to  land, 
When  you  no  more  can  proffer  notes  of  hand, 
Nor  I  half  yearn  to  change  my  yea  to  nay. 
Remember,  when  no  more  in  airy  way, 

You  tell  me  of  repayment  sagely  planned  : 
Only  remember  it,  you  understand  ! 
It 's  rather  late  to  counsel  you  to  pay  ; 
Yet  if  you  should  remember  for  awhile, 

And  then  forget  it  wholly,  I  should  grieve  ; 
For,  though  your  light  procrastinations  leave 
Small  remnants  of  the  hope  that  once  I  had, 
Than  that  you  should  forget  your  debt  and  smile, 
I  *d  rather  you  'd  remember  and  be  sad. 

Judy. 


[  263  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  LEWIS   CARROLL 


T 


WAGGAWOCKY 

WAS  Maytime,  and  the  lawyer  coves 

Did  jibe  and  jabber  in  the  wabe, 
All  menaced  were  the  Tichborne  groves, 
And  their  true  lord,  the  Babe. 


"  Beware  the  Waggawock,  my  son, 
The  eyelid  twitch,  the  knees'  incline, 

Beware  the  Baignet  network,  spun 
For  gallant  Ballantine." 

He  took  his  ton-weight  brief  in  hand, 
Long  time  the  hidden  clue  he  sought, 

Then  rested  he  by  the  Hawkins  tree, 
And  sat  awhile  in  thought. 

And  as  in  toughish  thought  he  rocks, 
The  Waggawock,  sans  truth  or  shame, 

Came  lumbering  to  the  witness  box, 
And  perjured  out  his  Claim. 

"  Untrue  !   untrue  !  "     Then,  through  and  through 
The  weary  weeks  he  worked  the  rack ; 

But  March  had  youth,  ere  with  the  Truth 
He  dealt  the  final  whack. 
[264] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  And  hast  thou  slain  the  Waggawock 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  Beamish  Boy  ! 

O  Coleridge,  J.  !   Hoorah  !   hooray  !  " 
Punch  chortled  in  his  joy. 

Shirley  Brooks, 


THE  VULTURE  AND  THE  HUSBAND- 
MAN 

(By  Louisa  Caroline) 

ri  "\HE  rain  was  raining  cheerfully 
As  if  it  had  been  May, 
The  Senate  House  appeared  inside 
Unusually  gay  ; 

And  this  was  strange,  because  it  was 
A  Viva-Voce  day. 

The  men  were  sitting  sulkily, 

Their  paper  work  was  done, 
They  wanted  much  to  go  away 

To  ride  or  row  or  run  ; 
u  It 's  very  rude,"  they  said,  u  to  keep 

Us  here  aud  spoil  our  fun." 

The  papers  they  had  finished  lay 

In  piles  of  blue  and  white, 
They  answered  everything  they  could. 

And  wrote  with  all  their  might, 
But  though  they  wrote  it  all  by  rote, 

They  did  not  write  it  right. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  Vulture  and  the  Husbandman 

Besides  these  piles  did  stand ; 
They  wept  like  anything  to  see 

The  work  they  had  in  hand  : 
u  If  this  were  only  finished  up," 

Said  they,  "  it  would  be  grand  ! " 

u  If  seven  D's  or  seven  C's 

We  give  to  all  the  crowd, 
Do  you  suppose,"  the  Vulture  said, 

"  That  we  could  get  them  ploughed  ?  " 
"  I  think  so,"  said  the  Husbandman, 

u  But  pray  don't  talk  so  loud." 

"  O  Undergraduates,  come  up," 

The  Vulture  did  beseech, 
u  And  let  us  see  if  you  can  learn 

As  well  as  we  can  teach ; 
We  cannot  do  with  more  than  two, 

To  have  a  word  with  each." 

Two  Undergraduates  came  up, 

And  slowly  took  a  seat ; 
They  knit  their  brows  and  bit  their  thumbs, 

As  if  they  found  them  sweet  ; 
And  this  is  odd,  because,  you  know, 

Thumbs  are  not  good  to  eat. 

u  The  time  has  come,"  the  Vulture  said, 

u  To  talk  of  many  things, 
Of  Accidence  and  Adjectives, 

And  names  of  Jewish  kings  ; 
How  many  notes  a  sackbut  has, 

And  whether  shawms  have  strings." 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Please,  Sir,"  the  Undergraduates  said, 

Turning  a  little  blue, 
u  We  did  not  know  that  was  the  sort 

Of  thing  we  had  to  do." 
"  We  thank  you  much,"  the  Vulture  said ; 

"Send  up  another  two." 

Two  more  came  up,  and  then  two  more, 
And  more,  and  more,  and  more, 

And  some  looked  upwards  at  the  roof, 
And  some  down  upon  the  floor, 

But  none  were  any  wiser  than 
The  pair  that  went  before. 

u  I  weep  for  you,"  the  Vulture  said ; 

"  I  deeply  sympathize  !  " 
With  sobs  and  tears  he  gave  them  all 

D's  of  the  largest  size, 
While  at  the  Husbandman  he  winked 

One  of  his  streaming  eyes. 

"  I  think,"  observed  the  Husbandman, 

"  We  're  getting  on  too  quick ; 
Are  we  not  putting  down  the  D's 

A  little  bit  too  thick  ?  " 
The  Vulture  said  with  much  disgust, 

u  Their  answers  make  me  sick." 

"  Now,  Undergraduates,"  he  cried, 

"  Our  fun  is  nearly  done ; 
Will  anybody  else  come  up  ?  " 

But  answer  came  there  none  ; 
But  this  was  scarcely  odd,  because 

They'd  ploughed  them  every  one ! 

[  267  ]  A.C.  Hilton. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  A.  C.  SWINBURNE 

GILLIAN 


J 


ACK  and  Jille 

I  have   made    me  an  end   of  the  moods  of 

maidens, 
I  have  loosed  me,  and  leapt  from  the  links 

of  love ; 
From    the    kiss    that    cloys    and  desire    that 

deadens, 
The   woes    that    madden,  the   words   that 

move. 
In  the  dim  last  days  of  a  spent  September, 

When  fruits  are  fallen,  and  flies  are  fain ; 
Before  you  forget,  and  while  I  remember, 
I  cry  as  I  shall  cry  never  again. 

Went  up  a  hylle 

Where  the  strong  fell  faints  in  the  lazy  levels 

Of  misty  meadows,  and  streams  that  stray  ; 
We  raised  us  at  eve  from  our  rosy  revels, 

With  the  faces  aflame  for  the  death  of  the 

day; 
With  pale  lips  parted,  and  sighs  that  shiver, 

Low  lids  that  cling  to  the  last  of  love : 
We  left  the  levels,  we  left  the  river, 

And  turned  us  and  toiled   to  the  air  above. 
268 


A    Parody    Anthology 


To  fetch  a  paile  of  water, 

By  the  sad  sweet  springs  that  have  salved  our 

sorrow, 
The    fates    that  haunt   us,   the   grief  that 

grips  — 
Where  we  walk  not  to-day  nor  shall  walk  not 

to-morrow  — 

The  wells  of  Lethe  for  wearied  lips. 
With  souls  nor  shaken  with  tears  nor  laughter, 
With  limp   knees   loosed  as  of  priests  that 

pray, 
We  bowed  us   and  bent   to  the  white  well- 

water, 
We  dipped  and  we  drank  it  and  bore  away. 

Jack  felle  downe 

The  low  light  trembled  on  languid  lashes, 
The  haze  of  your  hair  on  my  mouth  was 

blown, 

Our  love  flashed  fierce  from  its  fading  ashes, 

As  night's  dim  net  on  the  day  was  thrown. 

What  was   it  meant  for,   or  made  for,  that 

minute, 
But  that    our    lives  in    delight    should   be 

dipt  ? 

Was  it  yours,  or  my  fault,  or  fate's,  that  in  it 
Our  frail  feet  faltered,  our  steep  steps  slipt. 


And  brake  his  crowne,  and  Jille  came  tumblynge 
after. 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Our    linked    hands    loosened    and    lapsed    in 

sunder, 

Love  from  our  limbs  as  a  shift  was  shed, 
But  paused  a  moment,  to  watch  with  wonder 

The  pale  pained  body,  the  bursten  head. 
While  our  sad  souls  still  with  regrets  are  riven, 
While  the  blood  burns  bright  on  our  bruised 

brows, 

I  have  set  you  free,  and  I  stand   forgiven  — 
And  now  I  had  better  go  call  my  cows. 

Anonymous. 

ATALANTA   IN   CAMDEN-TOWN 

Y,  't  was  here,  on  this  spot, 

In  that  summer  of  yore, 
LAtalanta  did  not 
Vote  my  presence  a  bore, 

Nor  reply  to  my  tenderest  talk,  "  She  had  heard  all 
that  nonsense  before." 

She  'd  the  brooch  I  had  bought 

And  the  necklace  and  sash  on, 
And  her  heart,  as  I  thought, 
Was  alive  to  my  passion ; 

And  she  'd  done  up  her  hair  in  the  style  that  the 
Empress  had  brought  into  fashion. 

I  had  been  to  the  play 

With  my  pearl  of  a  Peri  — 
But,  for  all  I  could  say, 

She  declared  she  was  weary, 

That  "  the  place  was  so  crowded  and  hot,  and  she 
could  n't  abide  that  Dundreary." 


A   Parody    Anthology 


Then  I  thought,  "  'T  is  for  me 

That  she  whines  and  she  whimpers  ! " 
And  it  soothed  me  to  see 

Those  sensational  simpers, 

And  I  said,  "  This  is  scrumptious,"  —  a  phrase  I 
had  learned  from  the  Devonshire  shrimpers. 

And  I  vowed,  "  'T  will  be  said 

I  'm  a  fortunate  fellow, 
When  the  breakfast  is  spread, 

When  the  topers  are  mellow, 

When  the  foam  of  the  bird-cake  is  white  and  the 
fierce  orange-blossoms  are  yellow  !  " 

Oh,  that  languishing  yawn  ! 

Oh,  those  eloquent  eyes ! 

I  was  drunk  with  the  dawn 

Of  a  splendid  surmise  — 

I  was  stung  by  a  look,  I  was  slain  by  a  tear,  by  a 
tempest  of  sighs. 

And  I  whispered,  "  'T  is  time ! 

Is  not  Love  at  its  deepest  ? 
Shall  we  squander  Life's  prime, 

While  thou  waitest  and  weepest  ? 
Let  us  settle  it,  License  or  Banns?  —  though  un- 
doubtedly Banns  are  the  cheapest." 

"  Ah,  my  Hero  !  "  said  I, 
"  Let  me  be  thy  Leander  !  " 
But  I  lost  her  reply  — 

Something  ending  with  u  gander  "  — 
For  the  omnibus  rattled  so  loud  that  no    mortal 
could  quite  understand  her. 

[271    ]  Lewis  Carroll 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE    MANLET 

IN  stature  the  Manlet  was  dwarfish  — 
No  burly  big  Blunderbore  he : 
And  he  wearily  gazed  on  the  crawfish 

His  Wifelet  had  dressed  for  his  tea. 
"Now  reach  me,  sweet  Atom,  my  gunlet, 

And  hurl  the  old  shoelet  for  luck  ; 
Let  me  hie  to  the  bank  of  the  runlet 

And  shoot  thee  a  Duck !  " 

She  has  reached  him  his  minnikin  gunlet : 
She  has  hurled  the  old  shoelet  for  luck ; 

She  is  busily  baking  a  bunlet, 

To  welcome  him  home  with  his  duck. 

On  he  speeds,  never  wasting  a  wordlet, 
Though  thoughtlets  cling  closely  as  wax, 

To  the  spot  where  the  beautiful  birdlet 
So  quietly  quacks. 

Where  the  Lobsterlet  lurks  and  the  Crablet 

So  slowly  and  creepily  crawls  : 
Where  the  Dolphin  's  at  home  and  the  Dablet 

Pays  long  ceremonious  calls  : 
Where  the  Grublet  is  sought  by  the  Froglet : 

Where  the  Frog  is  pursued  by  the  Duck  : 
Where  the  Ducklet  is  chased  by  the  Doglet  — 
So  runs  the  world's  luck. 

He  has  loaded  with  bullet  and  powder : 

His  footfall  is  noiseless  as  air  : 
But  the  Voices  grow  louder  and  louder 

And  bellow  and  bluster  and  blare. 


A    Parody    Anthology 

They  bristle  before  him  and  after, 

They  flutter  above  and  below, 
Shrill  shriekings  of  lubberly  laughter, 

Weird  waitings  of  woe  ! 

They  echo  without  him,  within  him  : 

They  thrill  through  his  whiskers  and  beard  : 

Like  a  teetotum  seeming  to  spin  him, 
With  sneers  never  hitherto  sneered. 

u  Avengement,"  they  cry,  "  on  our  Foelet! 
Let  the  Manikin  weep  for  our  wrongs  ! 

Let  us  drench  him  from  toplet  to  toelet 
With  nursery  songs  ! 

"  He  shall  muse  upon  Hey  !   Diddle  !   Diddle  ! 

On  the  Cow  that  surmounted  the  Moon  ! 
He  shall  rave  of  the  Cat  and  the  Fiddle, 

And  the  Dish  that  eloped  with  the  Spoon  : 
And  his  soul  shall  be  sad  for  the  Spider, 

When  Miss  Muffett  was  sipping  her  whey, 
That  so  tenderly  sat  down  beside  her, 
And  scared  her  away  ! 

"  The  music  of  Midsummer-madness 

Shall  sting  him  with  many  a  bite, 
Till,  in  rapture  of  rollicking  sadness, 

He  shall  groan  with  a  gloomy  delight ; 
He  shall  swathe  him  like  mists  of  the  morning, 

In  platitudes  luscious  and  limp, 
Such  as  deck,  with  a  deathless  adorning, 
The  Song  of  the  Shrimp! 

[-8]  [273] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


"  When  the  Ducklet's  dark  doom  is  decided, 
We  will  trundle  him  home  in  a  trice  : 

And  the  banquet  so  plainly  provided 
Shall  round  into  rosebuds  and  rice: 

In  a  blaze  of  pragmatic  invention 

He  shall  wrestle  with  Fate  and  shall  reign : 

But  he  has  not  a  friend  fit  to  mention, 
So  hit  him  again  !  " 

He  has  shot  it,  the  delicate  darling  ! 

And  the  Voices  have  ceased  from  their  strife : 
Not  a  whisper  of  sneering  or  snarling, 

As  he  carries  it  home  to  his  wife : 
Then,  cheerily  champing  the  bunlet 
His  spouse  was  so  skilful  to  bake, 
He  hies  him  once  more  to  the  runlet, 
To  fetch  her  the  Drake  ! 

Lewis  Carroll* 

IF! 

IF  life  were  never  bitter, 
And  love  were  always  sweet, 
Then  who  would  care  to  borrow 
A  moral  from  to-morrow  — 
If  Thames  would  always  glitter, 

And  joy  would  ne'er  retreat, 
If  life  were  never  bitter, 

And  love  were  always  sweet! 

If  care  were  not  the  waiter 
Behind  a  fellow's  chair, 
When  easy-going  sinners 
Sit  down  to  Richmond  dinners, 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  life's  swift  stream  flows  straighter, 

By  Jove,  it  would  be  rare, 
If  care  were  not  the  waiter 

Behind  a  fellow's  chair. 

If  wit  were  always  radiant, 

And  wine  were  always  iced, 
And  bores  were  kicked  out  straightway 
Through  a  convenient  gateway ; 
Then  down  the  year's  long  gradient 

'Twere  sad  to  be  enticed, 
If  wit  were  always  radiant, 

And  wine  were  always  iced. 

Mortimer  Collins 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MEERSCHAUM 

NUDE    nymph,  when   from   Neuberg's   I   led 
her 
In  velvet  enshrined  and  encased, 
When  with  rarest  Virginia  I  fed  her, 
And  pampered  each  maidenly  taste 
On  u  Old  Judge  "  and  "  Lone  Jack  "  and  brown 

"  Bird's-eye," 

The  best  that  a  mortal  might  get  — 
Did  she  know  how,  from  whiteness  of  curds,  I 
Should  turn  her  to  jet  ? 

She  was  blonde  and  impassive  and  stately 
When  first  our  acquaintance  began, 

When  she  smiled  from  the  pipe-bowl  sedately 
On  the  u  Stunt  "  who  was  scarcely  a  man. 
[  '75  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

But  labuntur  anni  fugaces, 

And  changed  in  due  season  were  we, 
For  she  wears  the  blackest  of  faces, 

And  I  'm  a  D.  C. 

Unfailing  the  comfort  she  gave  me 

In  the  days  when  I  owned  to  a  heart, 
When  the  charmers  that  used  to  enslave  me 

For  Home  or  the  Hills  would  depart. 
She  was  Polly  or  Agnes  or  Kitty 

(Whoever  pro  tern,  was  my  flame), 
And  I  found  her  most  ready  to  pity, 

And  —  always  the  same. 

At  dawn,  when  the  pig  broke  from  cover, 

At  noon,  when  the  pleaders  were  met, 
She  clung  to  the  lips  of  her  lover 

As  never  live  maiden  did  yet; 
At  the  Bund,  when  I  waited  the  far  light 

That  brought  me  my  Mails  o'er  the  main  — 
At  night,  when  the  tents,  in  the  starlight, 

Showed  white  on  the  plain. 

And  now,  though  each  finely  cut  feature 

Is  flattened  and  polished  away, 
I  hold  her  the  loveliest  creature 

That  ever  was  fashioned  from  clay. 
Let  an  epitaph  thus,  then,  be  wrought  for 

Her  tomb,  when  the  smash  shall  arrive : 
"  Hie  jacet  the  life's  love  I  bought  for 

Rupees  twenty-five." 

Rudyard  Kipling 

[  276  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


QUAERITUR 

DAWN  that  disheartens  the  desolate  dunes, 
Dulness  of  day  as  it  bursts  on  the  beach, 
Sea-wind  that  shrillest  the  thinnest  of  tunes. 
What  is  the  wisdom  thy  wailings  would  teach  ? 
Far,  far  away,  down  the  foam-frescoed  reach, 
Where  ravening  rocks  cleave  the  crest  of  the 

seas, 

Sigheth  the  sound  of  thy  sonorous  speech, 
As  gray  gull  and  guillemot  gather  their  fees ; 
Taking  toll  of  the  beasts  that  are  bred  in  the 
seas. 

Foam-flakes  fly  farther    than   faint    eyes  can   fol- 
low — 

Drop  down  the  desolate  dunes  and  are  done ; 
Fleeter  than  foam-flowers  flitteth  the  Swallow, 

Sheer  for  the  sweets  of  the  South  and  the  Sun. 
What  is  thy  tale  ?      O  thou  treacherous  Swallow  ! 

Sing  me  thy  secret,  Beloved  of  the  Skies, 
That  I  may  gather  my  garments  and  follow  — 

Flee  on  the  path  of  thy  pinions  and  rise 

Where  strong  storms  cease  and  the  weary  wind 
dies. 

Lo  !   I  am  bound  with  the  chains  of  my  sorrow ; 

Swallow,  swift  Swallow,  ah,  wait  for  a  while  ! 
Stay  but  a  moment  —  it  may  be  to-morrow 

Chains    shall    be    severed    and    sad    souls   shall 
smile  ! 

t  *77i 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Only  a  moment  —  a  mere  minute's  measure  — 
How  shall  it  hurt  such  a  swift  one  as  thou  ? 
Pitiless  Swallow,  full  flushed  for  thy  pleasure, 
Canst  thou  not  even  one  instant  allow 
To    weak-winged    wanderers  ?      Wait    for    me 
now. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


A    MELTON    MOWBRAY    PORK-PIE 

STRANGE  pie  that  is  almost  a  passion, 
O  passion  immoral  for  pie  ! 
Unknown  are  the  ways  that  they  fashion. 

Unknown  and  unseen  of  the  eye. 
The  pie  that  is  marbled  and  mottled, 

The  pie  that  digests  with  a  sigh : 
For  all  is  not  Bass  that  is  bottled, 
And  all  is  not  pork  that  is  pie. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 


FOAM   AND    FANGS 

0  NYMPH  with  the  nicest  of  noses; 
And  finest  and  fairest  of  forms  \ 
Lips  ruddy  and  ripe  as  the  roses 
That  sway  and  that  surge  in  the  storms  \ 
O  buoyant  and  blooming  Bacchante, 

Of  fairer  than  feminine  face, 
Rush,  raging  as  demon  of  Dante  — 
To  this,  my  embrace  ! 


A    Parody    Anthology 


The  foam  and  the  fangs  and  the  flowers, 

The  raving  and  ravenous  rage 
Of  a  poet  as  pinion'd  in  powers 

As  condor  confined  in  a  cage  ! 
My  heart  in  a  haystack  I  've  hidden, 

As  loving  and  longing  I  lie, 
Kiss  open  thine  eyelids  unbidden  — 

I  gaze  and  I  die  ! 

I  Ve  wander'd  the  wild  waste  of  slaughter, 

I  've  sniffed  up  the  sepulchre's  scent, 
I  've  doated  on  devilry's  daughter, 

And  murmur'd  much  more  than  I  meant ; 
I  've  paused  at  Penelope's  portal, 

So  strange  are  the  sights  that  I  've  seen, 
And  mighty  's  the  mind  of  the  mortal 

Who  knows  what  I  mean. 

Walter  Parke* 

A   SONG   OF   RENUNCIATION 

IN  the  days  of  my  season  of  salad, 
When  the  down  was  as  dew  on  my  cheek, 
And  for  French  I  was  bred  on  the  ballad, 
For  Greek  on  the  writers  of  Greek,  — 
Then  I  sang  of  the  rose  that  is  ruddy, 

Of  u  pleasure  that  winces  and  stings," 
Of  white  women,  and  wine  that  is  bloody, 
And  similar  things. 

Of  Delight  that  is  dear  as  Desi-er, 
And  Desire  that  is  dear  as  Delight ; 

Of  the  fangs  of  the  flame  that  is  fi-er,    — < 
Of  the  bruises  of  kisses  that  bite ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Of  embraces  that  clasp  and  that  sever, 

Of  blushes  that  flutter  and  flee 
Round  the  limbs  of  Dolores,  whoever 

Dolores  may  be. 

I  sang  of  false  faith  that  is  fleeting 

As  froth  of  the  swallowing  seas, 
Time's  curse  that  is  fatal  as  Keating 

Is  fatal  to  amorous  fleas ; 
Of  the  wanness  of  woe  that  is  whelp  of 

The  lust  that  is  blind  as  a  bat  — 
By  the  help  of  my  Muse  and  the  help  of 

The  relative  THAT. 

Panatheist,  bruiser  and  breaker 

Of  kings  and  the  creatures  of  kings, 
I  shouted  on  Freedom  to  shake  her 

Feet  loose  of  the  fetter  that  clings ; 
Far  rolling  my  ravenous  red  eye, 

And  lifting  a  mutinous  lid, 
To  all  monarchs  and  matrons  I  said  I 

Would  shock  them  —  and  did. 

Thee  I  sang,  and  thy  loves,  O  Thalassian, 

O  "  noble  and  nude  and  antique  !  " 
Unashamed  in  the  "  fearless  old  fashion," 

Ere  washing  was  done  by  the  week  ; 
When  the  "  roses  and  rapture  "  that  girt  you 

Were  visions  of  delicate  vice, 
And  the  "  lilies  and  languors  of  virtue  " 

Not  nearly  so  nice. 

[  280] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


0  delights  of  the  time  of  my  teething, 
Felise,  Fragoletta,  Yolande  ! 

Foam-yeast  of  a  youth  in  its  seething 
On  blasted  and  blithering  sand  ! 

Snake-crowned  on  your  tresses  and  belted 
With  blossoms  that  coil  and  decay, 

Yc  are  gone ;  ye  are  lost ;  ye  are  melted 
Like  ices  in  May. 

Hushed  now  is  the  bibulous  bubble 

Of  "  lithe  and  lascivious  "  throats  ; 
Long  stript  and  extinct  is  the  stubble 
•  Of  hoary  and  harvested  oats;  , 

From  the  sweets  that  are  sour  as  the  sorrel's 

The  bees  have  abortively  swarmed ; 
And  Algernon's  earlier  morals 
Are  fairly  reformed. 

1  have  written  a  loyal  Armada, 

And  posed  in  a  Jubilee  pose ; 
I  have  babbled  of  babies  and  played  a 

New  tune  on  the  turn  of  their  toes ; 
Washed  white  from  the  stain  of  Astarte, 

My  books  any  virgin  may  buy ; 
And  I  hear  I  am  praised  by  a  party 

Called  Something  Mackay  ! 

When  erased  are  the  records,  and  rotten 

"The  meshes  of  memory's  net ; 
When  the  grace  that  forgives  has  forgotten 

The  things  that  are  good  to  forget ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


When  the  trill  of  my  juvenile  trumpet 
Is  tlead  and  its  echoes  are  dead ; 

Then  the  laurel  shall  lie  on  the  crumpet 
And  crown  of  my  head  ! 

Owen  Seaman. 


NEPHELIDIA 

FROM  the  depth  of  the  dreamy  decline  of  the 
dawn  through  a  notable  nimbus  of 
nebulous  moonshine, 

Pallid  and  pink  as  the  palm  of  the  flag-flower 
that  flickers  with  fe&r  of  the  flies  as  they 
float, 

Are  they  looks  of  our  lovers  that  lustrously  lean 
from  a  marvel  of  mystic  miraculous  moon- 
shine, 

These  that  we  feel  in  the  blood  of  our  blushes 
that    thicken     and    threaten    with    throbs 
through  the  throat  ? 
Thicken  and  thrill  as  a  theatre  thronged  -a*  "appeal 

of  an  actor's  appalled  agitation,    X~ 
Fainter  with  fear  of  the  fires  of  the  future  than 
pale  with  the  promise  of  pride  in  the  past ; 
Flushed  with  the  famishing  fulness  of  fever  that 

reddens  with  radiance  of  rathe  recreation, 
Gaunt  as  the  ghastliest  of  glimpses  that  gleam 
through  the  gloom  of  the  gloaming  when 
•"^^^  ghosts  go  aghast  ? 
Nay,  for  the  nick  of  the  tick  of  the  time  is  a  trem- 
ulous touch  on  the  temples  of  terror, 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Strained  as  the  sinews  yet  strenuous  with  strife 
of  the  dead  who  is  dumb  as  the  dust-heaps 
of  death ; 
Surely  no  soul  is  it,  sweet  as  the  spasm  of  erotic 

emotional  exquisite  error, 
Bathed  in  the  balms  of  beatified  bliss,  beatific 

itself  by  beatitude's  breath. 
Surely  no  spirit  or  sense  of  a  soul  that  was  soft  to 

the  spirit  and  soul  of  our  senses 
Sweetens  the  stress  of  surprising  suspicion  that 
sobs    in   the    semblance    and    sound    of  a 
sigh ; 
Only    this    oracle    opens    Olympian,   in    mystical 

moods  and  triangular  tenses, — 
u  Life  is  the  lust  of  a  lamp  for  the  light  that  is 
dark  till  the  dawn  of  the  day  when  we  die." 
Mild  is  the  mirk  and  monotonous  music  of  memory, 

melodiously  mute  as  it  may  be, 
While  the  hope  in  the  heart  of  a  hero  is  bruised 
by  the  breach  of  men's  rapiers,  resigned  to 
the  rod  ; 

Made  meek  as  a  mother  whose  bosom-beats  bound 
with  the  bliss-bringing  bulk  of  a  balm- 
breathing  baby, 

As  they  grope  through  the  grave-yard  of  creeds, 
under  skies  growing  green  at  a  groan  for 
the  grimness  of  God. 
Blank  is  the  book  of  his  bounty  beholden  of  old, 

and  its  binding  is  blacker  than  bluer  : 
Out   of  blue   into  black  is  the  scheme  of  the 
skies,  and  their  dews  are  the  wine  of  the 
bloodshed  of  things ; 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Till  the  darkling  desire  of  delight  shall  be  free  as  a 
fawn  that  is  freed  from  the  fangs  that 
pursue  her, 

Till  the  heart-beats  of  hell  shall  be  hushed  by  a 
hymn  from  the  hunt  that  has  harried  the 
kennel  of  kings. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


THE  LAY  OF  MACARONI 

AS   a    wave    that  steals  when    the  winds   are 
stormy 
From  creek  to  cove  of  the  curving  shore, 
Buffeted,  blown,  and  broken  before  me, 

Scattered  and  spread  to  its  sunlit  core : 
As  a  dove  that  dips  in  the  dark  of  maples 

To  sip  the  sweetness  of  shelter  and  shade, 
I  kneel  in  thy  nimbus,  O  noon  of  Naples, 
I  bathe  in  thy  beauty,  by  thee  embayed. 

What  is  it  ails  me  that  I  should  sing  of  her  ? 

The  queen  of  the  flashes  and  flames  that  were  ! 
Yea,  I  have  felt  the  shuddering  sting  of  her, 

The  flower-sweet  throat  and  the  hands  of  her  ! 
I    have  swayed    and    sung   to    the    sound   of  he- 
psalters, 

I  have  danced  her  dances  of  dizzy  delight, 
I    have  hallowed    mine    hair   to  the  horns  of  he: 
altars, 

Between  the  nightingale's  song  and  the  night ! 

[  284  ] 


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What  is  it,  Queen,  that  now  I  should  do  for  thee  ? 

What  is  it  now  I  should  ask  at  thine  hands  ? 
Blow  of  the  trumpets  thine  children  once  blew  for 
thee  ? 

Break    from    thine    feet    and   thine    bosom  the 

bands  ? 
Nay,  as  sweet  as  the  songs  of  Leone  Leoni, 

And  gay  as  her  garments  of  gem-sprinkled  gold, 
She  gives  me  mellifluous,  mild  macaroni, 

The  choice  of  her  children  when  cheeses  are  old  ! 

And  over  me  hover,  as  if  by  the  wings  of  it, 

Frayed  in  the  furnace  by  flame  that  is  fleet, 
The  curious  coils  and  the  strenuous  strings  of  it, 

Dropping,  diminishing  down,  as  I  eat ; 
Lo!   and  the  beautiful  Queen,  as  she  brings  of  it, 

Lifts  me  the  links  of  the  limitless  chain, 
Bidding  mine  mouth  chant  the  splendidest  things 
of  it, 

Out  of  the  wealth  of  my  wonderful  brain  ! 

Behold  !   I  have  done  it:  my  stomach  is  smitten 
With    sweets    of   the   surfeit    her    hands    have 

unrolled. 

Italia,  mine  cheeks  with  thine  kisses  are  bitten, 
I  am  broken  with  beauty,  stabbed,  slaughtered, 

and  sold  ! 
No  man  of  thy  millions  is  more  macaronied, 

Save  mighty  Mazzini,  than  musical  Me ; 
The  souls  of  the  Ages  shall  stand  as  astonied, 
And  faint  in  the  flame  I  am  fanning  for  thee  J 

Bayard  Taylor. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  BRET  HARTE 

THE  HEATHEN  PASS-EE 
By  Bred  Hard 

WHICH  I  wish  to  remark, 
And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  plots  that  are  dark 
And  not  always  in  vain 
The  heathen  Pass-ee  is  peculiar, 
And  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

I  would  also  premise 

That  the  term  of  Pass-ee 
Most  fitly  applies, 

As  you  probably  see, 
To  one  whose  vocation  is  passing 
The  ordinary  B.  A.  degree. 

Tom  Crib  was  his  name, 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply ; 
But  his  face  it  was  trustful  and  childlike, 
And  he  had  a  most  innocent  eye. 

Upon  April  the  First 

The  Little-Go  fell, 
And  that  was  the  worst 

Of  the  gentleman's  sell, 

r  *«* 1 


A    Parody    Anthology 

For  he  fooled  the  Examining  Body 
In  a  way  I  'm  reluctant  to  tell. 

The  candidates  came, 
And  Tom  Crib  soon  appeared  5 
It  was  Euclid.     The  same 

Was  "  the  subject  he  feared ;  " 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 
With  a  smile  that  was  wary  and  weird. 

Yet  he  did  what  he  could, 

And  the  papers  he  showed 
Were  remarkably  good, 

And  his  countenance  glowed 
With  prjde  when  I  met  him  soon  after 
As  he  walked  down  the  Trumpington  Road, 

We  did  not  find  him  out, 

Which  I  bitterly  grieve, 
For  I  've  not  the  least  doubt 

That  he  'd  placed  up  his  sleeve 
Mr.  Todhunter's  excellent  Euclid, 
The  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 


But  I  shall  not  forget 

How  the  next  day  at  two 
A  stiff  paper  was  set 
By  Examiner  U., 
On  Euripides'  tragedy,  Bacchae, 
A  subject  Tom  partially  knew. 


A    Parody    Anthology 

But  the  knowledge  displayed 

By  that  heathen  Pass-ee, 
And  the  answers  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, 
For  he  rapidly  floored  the  whole  paper 
By  about  twenty  minutes  to  three. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  U., 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
I  observed  "  This  won't  do  ;  " 
He  replied,  u  Goodness  me  ; 
We  are  fooled  by  this  artless  young  person," 
And  he  sent  for  that  heathen  Pass-ee. 

The  scene  that  ensued 

Was  disgraceful  to  view, 
For  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

With  a  tolerable  few 

Of  the  u  tips  "  that  Tom  Crib  had  been  hiding 
For  the  subject  he  "  partially  knew." 

On  the  cufF  of  his  shirt 

He  had  managed  to  get 
What  we  hoped  had  been  dirt, 
But  which  proved,  I  regret, 
To  be  notes  on  the  rise  of  the  Drama, 
A  question  invariably  set. 

In  his  various  coats 

We  proceeded  to  seek, 
Where  we  found  sundry  notes 

And  — with  sorrow  I  speak  — 
One  of  Bohn's  publications,  so  useful 
To  the  student  in  Latin  or  Greek. 


A  Parody    Anthology 


In  the  crown  of  his  cap 

Were  the  Furies  and  Fates, 
And  a  delicate  map 

Of  the  Dorian  States  ; 

And  we  found  in  his  palms,  which  were  hollow, 
What  are  frequent  in  palms, —  that  is  dates. 

Which  I  wish  to  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  plots  that  are  dark 

And  not  always  in  vain 
The  heathen  Pass-ee  is  peculiar, 
Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 

A.  C.  Hilton. 


DE   TEA   FABULA 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  Barnes 

DO  I  sleep  ?      Do  I  dream  ? 
Am  I  hoaxed  by  a  scout  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem, 
Or  is  Sophists  about  ? 

Is  our  TO  TL  r]v  elvai  a  failure,  or  is  Robert  Browning 
played  out  ? 

Which  expressions  like  these 

May  be  fairly  applied 
By  a  party  who  sees 

A  Society  skied 

Upon  tea  that  the  Warden  of  Keble  had  bi'.?rl   vilh 
legitimate  pride. 

[19]  [  289  J 


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*T  was  November  the  third, 

And  I  says  to  Bill  Nye, 
"  Which  it 's  true  what  I  've  heard  : 

If  you're,  so  to  speak,  fly, 

There  's  a  chance  of  some  tea  and  cheap  culture, 
the  sort  recommended  as  High." 

Which  I  mentioned  its  name, 

And  he  ups  and  remarks: 
"  If  dress-coats  is  the  game 

And  pow-wow  in  the  Parks, 

Then  I  'm  nuts  on  Sordello  and  Hohenstiel-Schwan- 
gau  and  similar  Snarks." 

Now  the  pride  of  Bill  Nye 

Cannot  well  be  express'd  ; 
For  he  wore  a  white  tie 

And  a  cut-away  vest : 

Says  I,  "Solomon's  lilies  ain't  in  it,  and  they  was 
reputed  well  dress'd." 

But  not  far  did  we  wend, 

When  we  saw  Pippa  pass 
On  the  arm  of  a  friend 

—  Dr.  Furnivall  't  was, 

And  he  wore  in  his  hat  two  half-tickets  for  London, 
return,  second-class. 

"  Well,"  I  thought,  «  this  is  odd." 

But  we  came  pretty  quick 
To  a  sort  of  a  quad 

That  was  all  of  red  brick, 

And  I  says  to  the  porter,  —  u  R.  Browning:  free 
passes  ;  and  kindly  look  slick." 
[  290  ] 


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But  says  he,  dripping  tears 

In  his  check  handkerchief, 
u  That  symposium's  career  's 

Been  regrettably  brief, 

For  it  went  all  its  pile  upon  crumpets  and  busted 
on  gunpowder  leaf!  " 

Then  we  tucked  up  the  sleeves 

Of  our  shirts  (that  were  biled), 
Which  the  reader  perceives 

That  our  feelings  were  riled, 

And   we  went  for  that   man   till  his  mother  had 
doubted  the  traits  of  her  child. 

Which  emotions  like  these 

Must  be  freely  indulged 
By  a  party  who  sees 

A  Society  bulged 

On  a  reef  the  existence  of  which  its  prospectus  had 
never  divulged. 

But  I  ask,  —  Do  I  dream  ? 

Has  it  gone  up  the  spout  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem, 
Or  is  Sophists  about  ? 

Is  our  TO  n  rfv  elvai  a  failure,  or  is  Robert  Brown- 
ing played  out  ? 

A.  T.  Quiller -Couch. 


[  291   ] 


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AFTER  AUSTIN   DOBSON 


THE   PRODIGALS 

(Dedicated  to  Mr.  Chaplin,  M.P.,  and  Mr.   Rich 
ard  Power,  M.P.,  and  223  who  followed  him) 

MINISTERS  !  you,  most  serious, 
Critics  and  statesmen  of  all  degrees, 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  motion  of  us  — 
Senators  keen  for  the  Epsom  breeze ! 
Nothing  we  ask  of  poets  or  fees  ; 
Worry  us  not  with  objections,  pray  ! 

Lo,  for  the  speaker's  wig  we  seize  — 
Give  us,  ah  !  give  us  the  Derby  Day. 

Scots  most  prudent,  penurious  ! 

Irishmen  busy  as  bumblebees  ! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  motion  of  us  — 

Senators  keen  for  the  Epsom  breeze  ! 

For  Sir  Joseph's  sake,  and  his  owner's,  please  ! 
(Solomon  raced  like  fun,  they  say.) 

Lo,  for  we  beg  on  our  bended  knees  — 
Give  us,  ah  !  give  us  the  Derby  Day. 

Campbell  —  Asheton  be  generous  [ 

(But  they  voted  such  things  were  not  the  cheese.) 
Sullivan,  hear  us,  magnanimous  ! . 

(But  Sullivan  thought  with  their  enemies.) 

r  *9*  i 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  shortly  they  got  both  of  help  and  ease, 
For  a  mad  majority  crowded  to  say, 

"  Debate  we  Ve  drunk  to  the  dregs  and  lees : 
Give  us,  ah  !  give  us  the  Derby  Day." 


ENVOI  : 


Prince,  most  just  was  the  motion  of  these, 
And  many  were  seen  by  the  dusty  way, 

Shouting  glad  to  the  Epsom  breeze 
Give  us,  ah  !  give  us  the  Derby  Day. 

Anonymous, 


I  w  ] 


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AFTER  ANDREW  LANG 


BO-PEEP 

UNHAPPY  is  Bo-Peep, 
Her  tears  profusely  flow, 
Because  her  precious  sheep 
Have  wandered  to  and  fro, 
Have  chosen  far  to  go, 
For  "  pastures  new  "  inclined, 

(See  Lycidas)  — and  lo  ! 
Their  tails  are  still  behind  ! 

How  catch  them  while  asleep  ? 

(I  think  Gaboriau 
For  machinations  deep 

Beats  Conan  Doyle  and  Co.) 

But  none  a  hint  bestow 
Save  this,  on  how  to  find 

The  flocks  she  misses  so  — 
"  Their  tails  are  still  behind  !  " 

This  simple  faith  to  keep 

Will  mitigate  her  woe, 
She  is  not  Joan,  to  leap 

To  arms  against  the  foe 

Or  conjugate  TVTTTCO  ; 
Nay,  peacefully  resigned 

She  waits,  till  time  shall  show 
Their  tails  are  still  behind  ! 
[  294  J 


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Bo-Peep,  rejoice  !     Although 
Your  sheep  appear  unkind, 

Rejoice  at  last  to  know 

Their  tails  are  still  behind  ! 

Anthony  C.  Deane. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   W.   E.   HENLEY 


IMITATION 

CALM  and  implacable, 
Eying  disdainfully  the  world  beneath, 
Sat  Humpty-Dumpty  on  his  mural  eminence 
In  solemn  state  : 
And  I  relate  his  story 
In  versa  unfettered  by  the  bothering  restrictions  of 

rhyme  or  metre, 

In  verse  (or  "  rhythm,"  as  I  prefer  to  call  it) 
Which,  consequently,  is  far  from  difficult  to  write. 

He  sat.     And  at  his  feet 

The  world  passed  on  —  the  surging  crowd 

Of  men  and  women,  passionate,  turgid,  dense, 

Keenly  alert,  lethargic,  or  obese. 

(Those  two  lines  scan  !) 

Among  the  rest 

He  noted  Jones  ;   Jones  with  his  Roman  nose, 

His  eyebrows  —  the  left  one  streaked  with  a  dash 

of  gray  — 
And  yellow  boots. 
Not  that  Jones 
Has  anything  in  particular  to  do  with  the  story ; 

[  296] 


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But  a  descriptive  phrase 

Like  the  above  shows  that  the  writer  is 

A  Master  of  Realism. 

Let  us  proceed.     Suddenly  from  his  seat 

Did  Humpty-Dumpty  slip.     Vainly  he  clutched 

The  impalpable  air.     Down  and  down, 

Right  to  the  foot  of  the  wall, 

Right  on  to  the  horribly  hard  pavement  that  ran 
beneath  it, 

Humpty-Dumpty,  the  unfortunate  Humpty- 
Dumpty,  "V 

Fell. 

And  him,  alas  !  no  equine  agency, 

Him  no  power  of  regal  battalions  — 

Resourceful,  eager,  strenuous  - — 

Could  ever  restore  to  the  lofty  eminence 

Which  once  was  his. 

Still  he  lies  on  the  very  identical 

Spot  where  he  fell  —  lies,  as  I  said  on  the  ground, 

Shamefully  and  conspicuously  abased  ! 

Anthony  C.  Deane 


I  297  ] 


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AFTER   R.  L.  STEVENSON 


BED    DURING   EXAMS 

I  USED  to  go  to  bed  at  night, 
And  only  worked  when  day  was  light. 
But  now  'tis  quite  the  other  way, 
I  never  get  to  bed  till  day. 

I  look  up  from  my  work  and  see 
The  morning  light  shine  in  on  me, 
And  listen  to  the  warning  knell  — 
The  tinkle  of  the  rising  bell. 

And  does  there  not  seem  cause  to  weep, 
When  I  should  like  so  much  to  sleep, 
I  have  to  sing  this  mournful  lay, 
I  cannot  get  to  bed  till  day  ? 

Clara  Warren 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   OSCAR  WILDE 

MORE   IMPRESSIONS 
(La  Fuite  des  Dies') 

TO  outer  senses  they  are  geese, 
Dull  drowsing  by  a  weedy  pool ; 
But  try  the  impression  trick.    Cool !   Cool ! 
Snow-slumbering  sentinels  of  Peace! 

Deep  silence  on  the  shadowy  flood, 

Save  rare  sharp  stridence  (that  means  "  quack  "), 

Low  amber  light  in  Ariel  track 
Athwart  the  dun  (that  means  the  mud). 

And  suddenly  subsides  the  sun, 

Bulks  mystic,  ghostly,  thrid  the  gloom 

(That  means  the  white  geese  waddling  home ), 

And  darkness  reigns  !     (See  how  it 's  done  ?) 

Oscuro  Wildgoose. 

NURSERY   RHYMES   A   LA   MODE 

(Our  nurseries  will  soon  be  too  cultured  to  admit  the 
old  rhymes  In  their  Philistine  and  un^sthetic  garb. 
They  may  be  redressed  somewhat  on  this  model) 

OH,  but  she  was  dark  and  shrill, 
(Hey-de-diddle  and  hey-de-dee  !  ) 
The  cat  that  (on  the  first  April) 
Played  the  fiddle  on  the  lea. 
[  290  1 


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Oh,  and  the  moon  was  wan  and  bright, 
(Hey-de-diddle  and  hey-de-dee !) 
The  Cow  she  looked  nor  left  nor  right, 
But  took  it  straight  at  a  jump,  pardie ! 

The  hound  did  laugh  to  see  this  thing, 
(Hey-de-diddle  and  hey-de-dee  ! ) 

As  it  was  parlous  wantoning, 

(Ah,  good  my  gentles,  laugh  not  ye,) 

And  underneath  a  dreesome  moon 
Two  lovers  fled  right  piteouslie  ; 

A  spooney  plate  with  a  plated  spoon, 
(Hey-de-diddle  and  hey-de-dee  !) 

POSTSCRIPT 

Then  blame  me  not,  altho'  my  verse 

Sounds  like  an  echo  of  C.  S.  C. 
Since  still  they  make  ballads  that  worse  and  worse 

Savor  of  diddle  and  hey-de-dee. 

Anonymous. 

A   MAUDLE-IN   BALLAD 

(To  his  Lily) 

MY  lank  limp  lily,  my  long  lithe  lily, 
My  languid  lily-love  fragile  and  thin, 
With  dank  leaves  dangling  and  flower-flap 

chilly, 

That  shines  like  the  shin  of  a  Highland  gilly  ! 
Mottled  and  moist  as  a  cold  toad's  skin  ! 
Lustrous  and  leper-white,  splendid  and  splay  ! 
Art  thou  not  Utter  and  wholly  akin 


A    Parody    Anthology 


To  my  own  wan  soul  and  my  own  wan  chin, 
And  my  own  wan  nose-tip,  tilted  to  sway 
The  peacock's  feather,  sweeter  than  sin, 
That  I  bought  for  a  halfpenny  yesterday  ? 

My  long  lithe  lily,  my  languid  lily, 

My  lank  limp  lily-love,  how  shall  I  win  — 

Woo  thee  to  wink  at  me  ?     Silver  lily, 

How  shall  I  sing  to  thee,  softly  or  shrilly  ? 

What  shall  I  weave  for  thee  —  what  shall  I  spin  — 

Rondel,  or  rondeau,  or  virelai  ? 

Shall  I  buzz  like  a  bee  with  my  face  thrust  in 

Thy  choice,  chaste  chalice,  or  choose  me  a  tin 

Trumpet,  or  touchingly,  tenderly  play 

On  the  weird  bird-whistle,  sweeter  than  sin, 

That  I  bought  for  a  halfpenny  yesterday. 

My  languid  lily,  my  lank  limp  lily, 
My  long  lithe  lily-love,  men  may  grin  — 
Say  that  I  'm  soft  and  supremely  silly  — 
What  care  I  while  you  whisper  stilly ; 
What  care  I  while  you  smile  ? ,    Not  a  pin  ! 
While  you  smile,  you  whisper  —  'T  is  sweet 
to  decay  ? 

I  have  watered  with  chlorodine,  tears  of  chagrin, 
The  churchyard  mould  I  have  planted  thee  in, 
Upside  down  in  an  intense  way, 
In  a  rough  red  flower-pot,  sweeter  than  sin, 
That  I  bought  for  a  halfpenny  yesterday. 

Punch. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


QUITE  THE  CHEESE 
(By  a   Wilde  ^Esthete} 

THERE  was    once    a    maiden    who    loved    a 
cheese ; 
Sing)  hey!  potatoes  and  paint! 
She  could  eat  a  pound  and  a  half  with  ease 
Oh)  the  odorous  air  was  faint ! 

What  was  the  cheese  that  she  loved  the  best  r 

Sing)  hey,   red  pepper  and  rags  ! 
You  will  find  it  out  if  you  read  the  rest ; 

Oh,  the  horrors  of  frowning  crags  ! ' 

Came  lovers  to  woo  her  from  ev'ry  land  — 
Sing,  hey  !  fried  bacon  and  files  ! 

They   asked  for    her  heart,   but   they    meant    her 

hand, 
Oh)  the  joy  of  the  Happy  Isles. 

A  haughty  old  Don  from  Oporto  came; 
^  Sing)  hey  /   new  carrots  and  nails  ! 
The  Duke  of  GORGONZOLA,  his  famous  name, 
Oh)  the  lusciously-scented  gales  ! 

Lord  STILTON  ^belonged  to  a  mighty  line ! 
'Sing)  hey!  salt  herrings  and  stones  ! 
He  was  "  Blue  "  as  chine  —  his  taste  divine  ! 
Oh)  the  sweetness  of  dulcet  tones. 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Came  stout  DOUBLE  GLO'STER  —  a  man  and  wife, 

Sing)  bey  !  post  pillars  and  pies  ! 
And  the  son  was  SINGLE,  and  fair  as  fate  5 

Oh)  the  purple  of  sunset  skies  ! 

DE  CAMEMBERT  came  from  his  sunny  France, 
Sing)  hey  !    pork  cutlets  and  pearls  ! 

He  would  talk  sweet  nothings,  and  sing  and  dance, 
Oh)  the  sighs  of  the  soft  sweet  girls. 

Came  GRUYERE  so  pale !  a  most  hole-y  man ! 

Sing)  hey  !  red  sandstone  and  rice  ! 
But  the  world  saw  through  him  as  worldings  can, 

Oh)  the  breezes  from  Isles  of  Spice. 

But  the  maiden  fair  loved  no  cheese  but  one! 

Sing)  hey  !  acrostics  and  ale  ! 
Save  for  SINGLE  GLO'STER  she  love  had  none ! 

Oh)  the  roses  on  fair  cheeks  pale  ! 

He  was  fair  and  single  —  and  so  was  she  ! 

Sing)  hey  !  tomatoes  and  tar  ! 
And  so  now  you  know  which  it  is  to  be ! 

Oh)  the  aid  of  a  lucky  star  ! 

They  toasted  the  couple  the  livelong  night, 

Sing)  hey!   cast  iron  and  carp  ! 
And  engaged  a  poet  this  song  to  write. 

Oh)  the  breathing  JEolian  harp! 

So  he  wrote  this  ballad  at  vast  expense  ! 

Sing)  hey  !  pump-handles  and  peas  ! 
And,  though  you  may  think  it  devoid  of  sense, 

Oh,  he  fancies  it  QU.TTE  THE  CHEESE  ! 

[30-    ;  H.  C.  Waring 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER  WILLIAM  WATSON 


THE  THREE  MICE 

r  I  ^HREE  mice  —  three  sightless  mice  —  averse 

from  strife, 

Peaceful  descendants  of  the  Armenian  race, 
Intent  on  finding  some  secluded  place 
Wherein  to  pass  their  inoffensive  life ; 
How  little  dreamt  they  of  that  farmer's  wife  — 
The  Forte's  malicious  minion  —  giving  chase, 
And  in  a  moment  —  ah,  the  foul  disgrace  !  — 
Shearing  their  tails  off  with  a  carving-knife  ! 

And  oh,  my  unemotional  countrymen, 
Who  choose  to  dally  and  to  temporize, 

When  once  before  with  vitriolic  pen 
I  told  the  tale  of  Turkish  infamies, 

Once  more  I  call  to  vengeance,  —  now  as  then, 
Shouting  the  magic  word  "  Atrocities  ! " 

Anthony  C.  Deane 


[  304  J 


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AFTER  KIPLING 

FUZZY  WUZZY  LEAVES  US 

WE  'VE  been  visited  by  men  across  the  seas, 
And  some  of  them  could  write,  and  some 
could  not  \ 
The  English,  French,  and  German  —  whom  you 

please, 

But  Kipling  was  the  finest  of  the  lot. 
In  sooth,  we  're  loath  to  lose  him  from  our  list ; 
Though    he 's    not  been    wholly   kind    in  all    his 

dealings ; 

Indeed  from  first  to  last  I  must  insist, 
He  has  played  the  cat  and  banjo  with  our  feelings. 

But  here  's  to  you,   Mr.   Kipling,  with  your 

comments  and  your  slurs ; 
You  're  a   poor,   benighted    Briton,  but    the 

Prince  of  Raconteurs ! 
We  '11  give  you  your  certificate,  and  if  you 

want  it  signed, 
Come  back  and  have  a  fling  at  us  whenever 

you  're  inclined  ! 

You  harrowed  us  with  murder  and  with  blood; 
You  dipped  us  deep  in  Simla's  petty  guile ; 
Yet  we  have  found  ourselves  misunderstood 
When  we  served  you  a  sensation  in  our  style ; 

[20]  [    305     1 


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And    though   you   saw    some   grewsome    pictures 

through 

The  Windy  City's  magnifying  lens, 
Yet  we  took  it  just  a  little  hard  of  you, 
A-objecting  to  the  slaughter  of  our  pens  ! 

But  here's  to  you,  Mr.  Kipling,  and  the  boys 

of  Lung-tung-pen, 
And  all  we  have  to  ask  you  is,  make  'em  kill 

again ! 
For  though  we  're  crude  in  some  things  here, 

which  fact  I  much  deplore, 
We  know  genius  when  we  see  it,  and  we  're  not 

afraid  of  gore. 

And  yet  we  love  you  best  on  Greenough  Hill, 

By  Bisesa  and  her  sisters  dark  perplext ; 

In  your  sermons,  which   have  power  to   lift  and 

thrill 

Just  because  they  have  the  heart  of  man  as  text ; 
And  when  you  bend,  the  little  ones  to  please, 
With  Bagheera  and  Baloo  at  hide  and  seek, 
Oh  !  a  happy  hour  with  Mowgli  in  the  trees 
Sets  a  little  chap  a-dreaming  for  a  week. 

So,  here  's  to  you,  Mr.  Kipling,  and  to  Mowgli  and 

Old  Kaa, 
And  to  her  who  loved  and  waited  where  the 

Gates  of  Sorrow  are  ; 
For  where  is  brush  more  potent  to  paint  since 

Art  began 
The  white  love   of  a   Woman   and  the   red 

blood  of  a  Man. 

[  306] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

So,  since  to  us  you  've  given  such  delight, 
We  hope  that  you  won't  think  us  quite  so  bad. 
You  're  all  hot  sand  and  ginger,  when  you  write, 
Hut    we  're    sure    you  're    only    shamming    when 

you  're  mad. 

Yet  so  you  leave  us  Gunga  Din's  salaam, 
So  you  incarnate  Mulvaney  on  a  spree ; 
Mr.  Kipling,  sir,  we  do  not  "  care  a  damn  " 
For  the  comments  you  may  make  on  such  as  we ! 

Then     here 's    to    you,    Mr.     Kipling,    and 

Columbia  avers 
You  're  a  poor,   benighted    Briton,   but   the 

Prince  of  Raconteurs. 
You  may  scathe  us,  and  may  leave  us ;  still 

in  our  hearts  will  stay 
The  man  who  made  Mulvaney  and  the  road 

to  Mandalay. 

E.  P.  C. 


A    BALLAD 

(In  the  manner  of  R-dy-rd  K-pl-ng) 


\S   I  w 
tig 
I  see 


S   I  was  walkin'  the  jungle  round,  a-killin'  of 
tigers  an'  time; 

seed  a  kind  of  an  author  man  a  writin'  a 
rousin'  rhyme  ; 
?E  was  writin'  a  mile  a  minute  an'  more,  an'  I  sez 

to  'im,  "  'Oo  are  you  ?  " 

Sez  'e,  "I'm  a  poet  —  'er  majesty's  poet  —  soldier 
an'  sailor,  too  !  " 

1 307  ] 


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An  'is  poem  began  in  Ispahan  an'  ended  in  Kala- 

mazoo, 
It  'ad  army  in  it,  an'  navy  in  it,  an'  jungle  sprinkled 

through, 
For  'e  was  a  poet  —  'er  majesty's  poet  —  soldier  an' 

sailor,  too  ! 

An'  after,  I  met  'im  all  over  the  world,  a  doin'  of 

things  a  host; 
'E  'ad  one  foot  planted  in  Burmah,  an'  one  on  the 

Gloucester  coast  ; 
'E  's  'alf  a   sailor  an'  'alf  a  whaler,  'e  's  captain, 

cook,  and  crew, 
But  most  a  poet  —  'er  majesty's  poet  —  soldier  an' 

sailor  too ! 
'E  's  often  Scot  an'  'e 's  often  not,  but  'is  work  is 

never  through, 
For  'e  laughs  at  blame,  an'  'e  writes  for  fame,  an' 

a  bit  for  revenoo,  — • 
Bein'  a  poet  —  'er  majesty's  poet  —  soldier  an'  sailor 

too! 

'E  '11  take  you  up  to  the  Ar'tic  zone,  'e  '11  take  you 

down  to  the  Nile., 
'E  '11  give  you  a  barrack    ballad  in    the    Tommy 

Atkins  style, 
Or  'e'll  sing  you  a  Dipsy  Chantey,  as  the  bloomin' 

bo'suns  do, 
For  'e  is  a  poet  —  'er  majesty's  poet  —  soldier  an' 

sailor  too. 
An'   there  is  n't   no   room   for  others,   an'  there 's 

nothin'  left  to  do; 

[  308  ] 


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E  'as  sailed  the  main  from  the  'Orn  to  Spain,  'e 

'as  tramped  the  jungle  through, 
^\n'  written  up  all  there  is  to   write  —  soldier  an' 

sailor,  too  ! 

Fhere  are  manners  an'  manners  of  writin',  but  'is 

is  the  proper  way, 
^n'  it  ain't  so  hard  to  be  a  bard  if  you  '11  imitate 

Rudyard  K.  ; 

But  sea  an'   shore   an'  peace  an'  war,  an'  every- 
thing else  in  view  — 
E    'as  gobbled   the    lot!  —  'er    majesty's   poet  — 

soldier  a'n  sailor,  too. 
E  's  not  content  with  'is  Indian  'ome,  'e  's  looking 

for  regions  new, 
In    another  year    'e  '11    'ave  swept  'em  clear,  an' 

what  '11  the  rest  of  us  do  ? 
E's  crowdin'  us  out !  —  'er  majesty's  poet  —  soldier 

an'  sailor  too ! 

Guy  Wetmore  Carry!. 


JACK   AND   JILL 

1TJERE  is  the  tale  —  and  you  must  make  the  most 
Li      of  it! 

Here  is  the  rhyme  —  ah,  listen  and  attend ! 
Backwards  — forwards  —  read  it  all  and  boast  of  it 
If  you  are  anything  the  wiser  at  the  end  ! 

Mow  Jack  looked  up  —  it  was  time  to  sup,  and  the 
bucket  was  yet  to  fill ; 
[  309  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  Jack  looked  round   for  a  space  and  frowned, 

then  beckoned  his  sister  Jill, 
And  twice  he  pulled  his  sister's  hair,  and  thrice  he 

smote  her  side ; 
u  Ha'  done,  ha'  done  with  your  impudent  fun  —  ha' 

done,  with  your  games  !  "  she  cried  ; 
u  You  have  made  mud-pies  of  a  marvellous  size  — 

finger  and  face  are  black, 
You  have  trodden  the  Way  of  the  Mire  and  Clay 

—  now  up  and  wash  you,  Jack  ! 
Or  else,  or  ever  we  reach  our  home,  there  waiteth 

an  angry  dame  — 
Well    you   know  the    weight  of  her  blow  —  the 

supperless  open  shame ! 
Wash,  if  you  will,  on  yonder  hill  —  wash  if  you 

will,  at  the  spring, — 
Or    keep    your  dirt,  to  your  certain  hurt,  and  an 

imminent  walloping  !  " 

• 

u  You  must  wash  —  you  must  scrub  —  you   must 

scrape  !  "  growled    Jack,    u  you    must   traffic 

with  can  and  pails, 
Nor  keep  the  spoil  of  the  good  brown  soil  in  the 

rim  of  your  fingernails  ! 
The  morning  path  you  must  tread  to  your  bath  — 

you  must  wash  ere  the  night  descends, 
And  all  for  the  cause  of  conventional  laws  and  the 

soapmaker's  dividends  ! 
But  if  't  is  sooth  that  our  meal  in  truth  depends  on 

our  washing,  Jill, 
By  the  sacred  right  of  our  appetite  —  haste  —  haste 

to  the  top  of  the  hill  !  " 
L  3'o] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


They  have  trodden  the  Way  of  the  Mire  and  Clay, 

they  have  toiled  and  travelled  far, 
They  have  climbed  to  the  brow  of  the  hill-top  now, 

where  the  bubbling  fountains  are, 
They  have  taken  the  bucket  and  filled  it  up  —  yea, 

filled  it  up  to  the  brim  ; 
But  Jack  he  sneered  at   his  sister  Jill,  and  Jill  she 

jeered  at  him : 
"  What,  blown  already  !  "  Jack  cried  out  (and  his 

was  a  biting  mirth  ! ) 
u  You  boast  indeed  of  your  wonderful  speed  —  but 

what  is  the  boasting  worth  ? 
Now,  if  you  can  run  as  the  antelope  runs,  and  it 

you  can  turn  like  a  hare, 

Come,  race  me,  Jill,  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  —  and 

prove  your  boasting  fair  !  " 
Race  ?     What  is  a  race  ?  "  (and  a  mocking  face 

had  Jill  as  she  spake  the  word) 
Unless  for  a  prize  the  runner  tries  ?     The  truth 

indeed  ye  heard, 
For  I  can  run  as  the  antelope  runs,  and  I  can  turn 

like  a  hare  :  — 
The  first  one  down  wins  half  a  crown  —  and  I  will 

race  you  there  !  " 
"Yea,   if  for  the  lesson  that  you  will  learn  (the 

lesson  of  humbled  pride), 
The  price  you  fix  at  two-and-six,  it  shall  not  be 

denied  ; 
Come,  take  your  stand  at  my  right  hand,  for  here 

is  the  mark  we  toe : 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Now,  are  you  ready,  and  are  you  steady  ?     Gird 
up  your  petticoats  ?     Go  !  " 

And  Jill  she  ran   like  a  winging  bolt,  a  bolt  from 

the  bow  released, 
But  Jack  like  a  stream  of  the  lightning  gleam,  wit. \ 

its  pathway  duly  greased  ; 
He  ran  down  hill  in  front  of  Jill  like  a  summer 

lightning  flash  — 
Till  he  suddenly  tripped  on  a  stone,  or  slipped,  and 

fell  to  the  earth  with  a  crash. 
Then  straight  did  rise  on  his  wondering  eyes  the 

constellations  fair, 
Arcturus  and  the  Pleiades,  the  Greater  and  Lesser 

Bear, 
The  swirling  rain  of  a  comet's  train  he  saw,  as  he 

swiftly  fell  — 
And   Jill  came  tumbling   after  him  with   a  loud, 

triumphant  yell : 
"  You  have  won,  you  have  won,  the  race  is  done  ! 

And  as  for  the  wager  laid  — 
You  have  fallen  down  with  a  broken  crown  — the 

half-crown  debt  is  paid  !  " 

They  have  taken   Jack   to  the  room  at  the  back 

where  the  family  medicines  are, 
And  he  lies  in  bed  with  a  broken  head  in  a  halo  of 

vinegar ; 
While,  in  that  Jill  had  laughed  her  fill  as  her  brother 

fell  to  earth 
She  had  felt  the  sting  of  a  walloping — she  hath 

paid  the  price  of  her  mirth  ! 
[  3"  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 

Here  is  the  tale  —  and  now  you  have  the  whole  of  it  ! 

Here  is  the  story,  well  and  wisely  planned ; 
Beauty  —  Duty  —  these  make  up  the  soul  of  it  — 
But,  ah,   my  little    readers,   will  you   mark    and 
understand  ? 

Anthony  C.  Deane. 


THE  LEGEND    OF   REALISM 

THIS  is  the  sorrowful  story, 
Told  when  the  twilight  fails, 
And  the  authors  sit  together 
Reading  each  other's  tales. 

"  Our  fathers  lived  in  the  cloudland, 

They  were  Romanticists, 
They  went  down  to  the  valley 

To  play  with  the  Scientists. 

"  Our  fathers  murmured  of  moonshine, 
Our  fathers  sang  to  the  stars, 

Our  fathers  were  playfully  prolix, 
Our  fathers  knew  nothing  of  c  pars.' 

u  Then  came  the  terrible  savants, 
Nothing  of  play  they  knew, 

Only  —  they  caught  our  fathers, 
And  set  them  to  burrow  too. 

"  Set  them  to  work  in  the  workshop, 
With  crucible,  test,  and  scales, 

Put  them  in  mud-walled  prisons, 
And  —  cut  up  their  beautiful  tales. 

[313] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"  Now  we  can  read  our  fathers, 
Trenchant,  and  terse,  and  cold, 

Stooping  to  dig  in  dust-heaps, 
Sharing  the  common  mold. 

a  Driving  a  quill  quotidian, 

Mending  a  muddy  plot, 
Sitting  in  mud-walled  prison^ 

Steeping  their  souls  in  rot. 

"  Thus  and  so  do  our  fathers, 

Thus  and  so  must  we  do, 
For  we  are  the  slaves  of  science, 

And  we  are  Realists  too." 

This  is  the  horrible  story, 

Told  as  the  twilight  fails, 
And  the  authors  sit  together 

Reading  each  other's  tales. 

Hilda  Johnson, 


[314] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


AFTER   STEPHEN   PHILLIPS 


LITTLE   JACK   HORNER 

LITTLE  JACK  HORNER  sat  in  an  angle 
Meditating. 
Before  we  go  farther, 

Please  clearly  understand  this  is  blank  verse. 
If  it  reads  strangely,  and  the  accent  falls 
In  unexpected  places,  do  not  dare 
To  criticise.     Remember  once  for  all, 
That  I  and  Milton  judge  questions  like  that  — 
Vide  my  letters  to  the  daily  press. 
As  for  my  critics  —  wholesale  ignorance 
Were  a  term  far  too  mild  to  paint  their  gross 
Unintellectuality.     So  much  said, 
I  start  again. 

In  a  corner  he  sat, 

Remote  from  comrades.     Resolutely  his  hand 
Clutched  a  delicious  pie.     Anon  his  thumb 
From  the  pasty  depth  produced  a  currant. 

(Excuse  another  interruption,  but 
Observe  the  beauty  of  that  ultimate  line  ! 
With  equal  ease  I  might  have  written  it 
"  Produced  a  currant  from  the  pasty  depth," 
But  I  —  and  Milton  in  his  better  moments  — 

lr-s  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Prefer  to  be  original.)      In  his  soul 
The  obsession  of  his  own  superior  virtue 
Grew  and  prevailed,  till  at  the  last  he  cried  : 
u  I  am  a  Paragon  of  Excellence  !  " 

Happy  Jack  Horner,  thus  fully  convinced 
Of  his  remarkable  superiority  ! 
And  happy  readers,  who  peruse  his  tale 
Retold  in  such  magnificent  blank  verse  ! 

Antbony  C.  Deane* 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER    FIONA    McLEOD,    W.    B. 
YEATS,   AND   OTHERS 

THE    CULT   OF   THE   CELTIC 

WHEN  the  eager  squadrons  of  day  are  faint 
and  disbanded, 
And    under    the    wind-swept  stars  the 
reaper  gleans 
The    petulant   passion  flowers  —  although,   to    be 

candid, 
I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  what  that  means  — 

Surely  the  Snow-White  Bird  makes  melody  sweeter 
High  in   the   air   than   skimming   the   clogging 

dust. 
(Yes,  there  's  certainly  something  queer  about  this 

metre, 

But,  as  it 's  Celtic,  you  and  I  must  take  it  on 
trust.) 

And  oh,  the  smile  of  the  Slave  as  he  shakes  his 

fetters  ! 

And  oh,  the  Purple  Pig  as  it  roams  afar  ! 
And  oh,  the  —  something  or  other  in  capital  let- 
ters— 

As  it  yields  to  the  magic  spell  of  a  wind-swept 
star  ! 

[317] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  look  at  the  tricksy  Elves,  how  they  leap  and 

frolic, 

Ducking  the  Bad  Banshee  in  the  moonlit  pool, 
Celtic,  yet  fully  content  to  be  u  symbolic," 

Never  a  thought  in    their   heads   about    Home 
Rule! 

But  the  wind-swept  star  —  you  notice    it    has   to 

figure, 

Taking  an  average  merely,  in  each  alternate  verse 
Of  every    Celtic    poem  —  smiles   with  a  palpable 

snigger, 

While  the  Yellow  Wolf-Hound  bays  his  blight- 
ing curse, 

And  the  voices  of  dead  desires  in  sufferers  waken, 
And  the  voice  of  the  limitless  lake  is  harsh  and 

rough, 

And  the  voice  of  the  reader,  too,  unless  I  'm  mis- 
taken, 
Is  heard  to  remark  that  he  's  had  about  enough. 

But  since  the  critics  have  stated  with  some  decision 
That  stanzas  very  like  these  are  simply  grand, 

Showing  u  a  sense  of  beauty  and  intimate  vision," 
Proving  a  u  Celtic  Renaissance  "  close  at  hand  ; 

Then,  although  I  admit  it 's  a  terrible  tax  on 
Powers  like  mine,  yet  I  sincerely  felt 

My  task,  as  an  unintelligent  Saxon, 

Was,  at  all  hazards,  to  try  to  copy  the  Celt  ! 

Anthony  C.  Deane, 

[  318] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   VARIOUS   WRITERS   OF 
VERS   DE   SOCIETE 

BEHOLD  THE  DEEDS! 
(Chant  Royal) 

(Being  the  Plaint  of  Adolphe  Culpepper  Ferguson, 
Salesman  of  Fancy  Notions,  held  in  durance  of  his 
Landlady  for  a  failure  to  connect  on  Saturday 
night) 

I 

I   WOULD  that  all  men  my  hard  case  might 
know; 
How  grievously  I  suffer  for  no  sin : 
I,  Adolphe  Culpepper  Ferguson,  for  lo ! 

I,  of  my  landlady  am  locked  in. 
For  being  short  on  this  sad  Saturday, 
Nor  having  shekels  of  silver  wherewith  to  pay, 
She  has  turned  and  is  departed  with  my  key; 
Wherefore,  not  even  as  other  boarders  free, 

I  sing  (as  prisoners  to  their  dungeon  stones 
When  for  ten  days  they  expiate  a  spree)  : 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones  ! 

II 

One  night  and  one  day  have  I  wept  my  woe ; 

Nor  wot  I  when  the  morrow  doth  begin, 
If  I  shall  have  to  write  to  Briggs  &  Co., 

To  pray  them  to  advance  th^  requisite  tin 
F  3*9 


A    Parody    Anthology 


For  ransom  of  their  salesman,  that  he  may 
Go  forth  as  other  boarders  go  alway  — 
As  those  I  hear  now  flocking  from  their  tea, 
Led  by  the  daughter  of  my  landlady 

Pianoward.     This  day  for  all  my  moans, 
Dry  bread  and  water  have  been  served  me. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


in 

Miss  Amabel  Jones  is  musical,  and  so 

The  heart  of  the  young  he-boarder  doth  win, 
Playing  "  The  Maiden's  Prayer,"  adagio  — 

That  fetcheth  him,  as  fetcheth  the  banco  skin 
The  innocent  rustic.      For  my  part,  I  pray  : 
That  Badarjewska  maid  may  wait  for  aye 
Ere  sits  she  with  a  lover,  as  did  we 
Once  sit  together,  Amabel !   Can  it  be 

That  all  of  that  arduous  wooing  not  atones 
For  Saturday  shortness  of  trade  dollars  three  ? 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones  ! 


IV 

Yea  !   she  forgets  the  arm  was  wont  to  go 

Around   her  waist.     She  wears  a  buckle  whose 

pin 
Galleth  the  crook  of  the  young  man's  elbow; 

I  forget  not,  for  I  that  youth  have  been. 
Smith  was  aforetime  the  Lothario  gay. 
Yet  once,  I  mind  me,  Smith  was  forced  to  stay 
Close  in  his  room.     Not  calm,  as  I,  was  he; 
[  3'°] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


But  his  noise  brought  no  pleasaunce,  verily. 

Small  ease  he  gat  of  playing  on  the  bones, 
Or  hammering  on  his  stove-pipe,  that  I  see. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones  ! 


Thou,  for  whose  fear  the  figurative  crow 

I  eat,  accursed  be  thou  and  all  thy  kin ! 
Thee  will  I  show  up  —  yea,  up  will  I  show 

Thy  too  thick  buckwheats,  and  thy  tea  too  thin 
Ay  !  here  I  dare  thee,  ready  for  the  fray  ! 
Thou  dost  not  keep  a  first-class  house,  I  say ! 
It  does  not  with  the  advertisements  agree. 
Thou  lodgest  a  Briton  with  a  pugaree, 

And  thou  hast  harbored  Jacobses  and  Cohns, 
Also  a  Mulligan.     Thus  denounce  I  thee ! 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


ENVOY 

Boarders  !  the  worst  I  have  not  told  to  ye : 
She  hath  stole  my  trousers,  that  I  may  not  flee 

Privily  by  the  window.      Hence  these  groans, 
There  is  no  fleeing  in  a  robe  de  nuit. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones ! 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


[  3" 


A    Parody    Anthology 


CULTURE  IN  THE  SLUMS 

(Inscribed  to  an  Intense  Poet) 

"  /"X    CRIKEY,  Bill !  "  she  ses  to  me,  she  ses, 
I       1     "  Look  sharp,"  ses  she,  "  with  them  there 

sossiges. 

Yea  !  sharp  with  them  there  bags  of  mysteree  ! 
For  lo  !"  she  ses,  "  for  lo!   old  pal,"  ses  she, 

"  I  'm  blooming  peckish,  neither  more  or  less." 
Was  it  not  prime  —  I  leave  you  all  to  guess 
How  prime  — to  have  a  Jude  in  love's  distress 
Come  spooning  round,  and  murmuring  balmilee, 
«  O  crikey,  Bill !  " 

For  in  such  rorty  wise  doth  Love  express 

His  blooming  views,  and  asks  for  your  address, 

And  makes  it  right,  and  does  the  gay  and  free. 
I  kissed  her  —  I  did  so  !   And  her  and  me 
Was  pals.     And  if  that  ain't  good  business, 

O  crikey,  Bill ! 

W.  E.  Hen/ey. 

A    BALLADE   OF    BALLADE-MONGERS 

(After  the  manner  of  Master  Francois  Villon  of  Paris) 


i 


N  Ballades  things  always  contrive  to  get  lost, 

And  Echo  is  constantly  asking  where 
Are  last  year's  roses  and  last  year's  frost  ? 
And  where  are  the  fashions  we  used  to  wear? 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  what  is  a  "gentleman,"  and  what  is  a  "  player"  ? 

Irrelevant  questions  I  like  to  ask  : 
Can  you  reap  the  tret  as  well  as  the  tare  ? 

And  who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  ? 

What  has  become  of  the  ring  I  tossed 

In  the  lap  of  my  mistress  false  and  fair? 
Her  grave  is  green  and  her  tombstone  mossed ; 

But  who  is  to  be  the  next  Lord  Mayor  ? 
And  where  is  King  William,  of  Leicester  Square  ? 

And  who  has  emptied  my  hunting  flask  ? 
And  who  is  possessed  of  Stella's  hair  ? 

And  who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  ? 

And  what  became  of  the  knee  I  crossed, 

And  the  rod  and  the  child  they  would  not  spare  ? 
And  what  will  a  dozen  herring  cost 

When  herring  are  sold  at  three  halfpence  a  pair  ? 
And  what  in  the  world  is  the  Golden  Stair  ? 

Did  Diogenes  die  in  a  tub  or  cask, 
Like  Clarence ,  for  love  of  liquor  there  ? 

And  who  was  the  Man    in    the    Iron    Mask? 

ENVOY 

Poets,  your  readers  have  much  to  bear, 
For  Ballade-making  is  no  great  task, 

If  you  do  not  remember,  I  don't  much  care 
Who  was  the  man  in  the  Iron  Mask. 

Augustus  M.  Moore 


[3*3 


A     Parody    Anthology 


AFTER   VARIOUS   POPULAR 
SONGS 

BEAUTIFUL   SNOW 

(With  a  drift} 

OH  !  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow 
(This  is  a  parody,  please,  you  know  •, 
Over  and  over  again  you  may  meet 
Parodies  writ  on  this  poem  so  sweet ; 
Rhyming,  chiming,  skipping  along, 
Comical  bards  think  they  do  nothing  wrong  \ 
Striving  to  follow  what  others  have  done, 
One  to  the  number  may  keep  up  the  fun). 
Beautiful  snow,  so  gently  you  scud, 
Pure  for  a  minute,  then  dirty  as  mud  ! 

Oh  !  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ! 
Here  's  a  fine  mess  you  have  left  us  below , 
Chilling  our  feet  to  the  tips  of  our  toes; 
Cheekily  landing  full  pert  on  our  nose; 
Jinking,  slinking,  ever  you  try 
'Neath  our  umbrella  to  flop  in  our  eye; 
Gamins  await  us  at  every  new  street, 
Watching  us  carefully,  guiding  our  feet, 
Joking,  mocking,  ready  to  throw 
A  hard-compressed  ball  of  this  beautiful  snow 

Anonymous. 


A     Parody    Anthology 


THE   NEWEST  THING  IN    CHRISTMAS 
CAROLS 

GOD  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen  ! 
May  nothing  you  dismay ; 
Not  even  the  dyspeptic  plats 
Through  which  you'll  eat  your  way; 
Nor  yet  the  heavy  Christmas  bills 

The  season  bids  you  pay  ; 
No,  nor  the  ever  tiresome  need 
Of  being  to  order  gay  ; 

Nor  yet  the  shocking  cold  you  '11  catch 

If  fog  and  slush  hold  sway ; 
Nor  yet  the  tumbles  you  must  bear 

If  frost  should  win  the  day ; 
Nor  sleepless  nights  —  they  're  sure  to  come  — 

When  "  waits  "  attune  their  lay  ; 
Nor  pantomimes,  whose  dreariness 

Might  turn  macassar  gray; 

Nor  boisterous  children,  home  in  heaps, 

And  ravenous  of  play  ; 
Nor  yet —  in  fact,  the  host  of  ills 

Which  Christmases  array. 
God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 

May  none  of  these  dismay  ! 

Anonymous. 


[3*5] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   TALE    OF   LORD    LOVELL 

LORD  LOVELL  he  stood  at  his  own  front 
door, 

Seeking  the  hole  for  the  key ; 
His  hat  was  wrecked,  and  his  trousers  bore 

A  rent  across  either  knee, 
When  down  came  the  beauteous  Lady  Jane 
In  fair  white  draperie. 

u  Oh,  where  have  you  been,  Lord  Lovell  ?  "  she 
said, 

u  Oh,  where  have  you  been  ?  "  said  she  ; 
"  I  have  not  closed  an  eye  in  bed, 

And  the  clock  has  just  struck  three. 
Who  has  been  standing  you  on  your  head 

In  the  ash-barrel,  pardie  ? " 

"  I  am  not  drunk,  Lad'  Shane,"  he  said : 

u  And  so  late  it  cannot  be  ; 
The  clock  struck  one  as  I  entered  — 

I  heard  it  two  times  or  three ; 
It  must  be  the  salmon  on  which  I  fed 

Has  been  too  many  for  me." 

"  Go  tell  your  tale,  Lord  Lovell,"  she  said, 

"  To  the  maritime  cavalree, 
To  your  grandmother  of  the  hoary  head  — 

To  any  one  but  me : 
The  door  is  not  used  to  be  opened 

With  a  cigarette  for  a  key." 

[  326  ]  Anonymous. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


"SONGS   WITHOUT   WORDS" 

I  CANNOT  sing  the  old  songs, 
Though  well  I  know  the  tune, 
Familiar  as  a  cradle-song 
With  sleep-compelling  croon ; 
Yet  though  I  'm  filled  with  music 

As  choirs  of  summer  birds, 
44 1  cannot  sing  the  old  songs  "  — 
I  do  not  know  the  words. 

I  start  on  "  Hail  Columbia," 

And  get  to-44  heav'n-born  band," 
And  there  I  strike  an  up-grade 

With  neither  steam  nor  sand ; 
44  Star-Spangled  Banner  "  downs  me 

Right  in  my  wildest  screaming, 
I  start  all  right,  but  dumbly  come 

To  voiceless  wreck  at  4C  streaming." 

So  when  I  sing  the  old  songs, 

Don't  murmur  or  complain 
If  44  Ti,  diddy  ah  da,  turn  dum  " 

Should  fill  the  sweetest  strain. 
I  love  u  Tolly  um  dum  di  do," 

And  the  44  Trilla-la  yeep  da  "  birds, 
But  44 1  cannot  sing  the  old  songs  "  — 

I  do  not  know  the  words. 

Robert  J.  Eurdette. 

[3*7] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN 


B 


Y  the  side  of  a  murmuring  stream,  an  elderly 

gentleman  sat, 

On  the  top  of   his  head  was  his  wig,  and 
a-top  of  his  wig  was  his  hat. 

The  wind  it  blew  high  and  blew  strong,  as  the 

elderly  gentleman  sat ; 
And  bore  from  his  head  in  a  trice,  and  plunged   in 

the  river  his  hat. 

The  gentleman  then  took  his  cane,  which  lay  by 
his  side  as  he  sat; 

And  he  dropped  in  the  river  his  wig,  in  attempt- 
ing to  get  out  his  hat. 

His  breast  it  grew  cold  with  despair,  and  full  in 

his  eye  madness  sat; 
So  he  flung  in  the  river  his  cane  to  swim  with  his 

wig  and  his  hat. 

Cool    reflection    at    last    came   across,  while    this 

elderly  gentleman  sat ; 
So  he   thought  he  would  follow  the  stream,  and 

look  for  his  cane,  wig,  and  hat. 

His  head,  being  thicker  than  common,  overbalanced 

the  rest  of  his  fat, 
And  in  plumpt  this  son  of  a  woman,  to  follow  his 

wig,  cane,  and  hat. 

George  Canning. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


TURTLE   SOUP 

BEAUTIFUL  soup,  so  rich  and  green, 
Waiting  in  a  hot  tureen  ! 
Who  for  such  dainties  would  not  stoop  ? 
Soup  of  the  evening,  beautiful  Soup  ? 
Soup  of  the  evening,  beautiful  Soup  ? 
Beau — ootiful  Soo — oop  ! 
Beau — ootiful  Soo — oop  ! 
Soo — oop  of  the  e — e — evening, 
Beautiful,  beautiful  Soup  ! 

"  Beautiful  Soup  !     Who  cares  for  fish, 
Game,  or  any  other  dish  ? 
Who  would  not  give  all  else  for  two  p 
Ennyworth  only  of  beautiful  Soup  ? 
Pennyworth  only  of  beautiful  soup? 

Beau — ootiful  Soo — oop  ! 

Beau — ootiful  Soo — oop  ! 
Soo — oop  of  the  e — e — evening, 

Beautiful,  beauti — FUL  SOUP  !  " 

Lewis  Carroll, 


I 


SOME    DAY 
(To  an  Extortionate  Tailor) 

KNOW  not  when  your  bill  I  '11  see, 
I  know  not  when  that  bill  fell  due, 

What  interest  you  will  charge  to  me, 
Or  will  you  take  my  I.  O.  U.  ? 

[329] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


It  may  not  be  till  years  are  passed, 

Till  chubby  children's  locks  are  gray  ; 
The  tailor  trusts  us,  but  at  last 

His  reckoning  we  must  meet  some  day. 
Some  day  —  some  day  —  some  day  I  must  meet  it, 
Snip,  I  know  not  when  or  how, 
Snip,  I  know  not  when  or  how ; 
Only  this  —  only  this — this    that    once  you  did 

me  — 

Only  this  —  I  '11  do  you  now  —  I  '11  do  you  now  — 

I  '11  do  you  now  ! 

I  know  not  are  you  far  or  near  — 
.  Are  you  at  rest,  or  cutting  still  ? 
I  know  not  who  is  held  so  dear  ! 

Or  who  's  to  pay  your  "  little  bill  "  ! 
But  when  it  comes,  —  some  day  —  some  day  — 

These  eyes  an  awful  tote  may  see ; 
And  don't  you  wish,  my  tailor  gay, 
That  you  may  get  your  £.  s.  d.  ? 
Some  day  —  some  day  —  some  day  I  must  meet  it, 
Snip,  I  know  not  when  or  how, 
Snip,  I  know  not  when  or  how ; 
Only  this — only    this  —  this  that    once   you   did 

me  — 

Only  this  —  I  '11  do  you  now  —  I  '11  do  you  now  — 

I  '11  do  you  now  ! 
F.  P.  Doveton. 


[  330  ] 


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IF   I   SHOULD    DIE   TO-NIGHT 

IF  I  should  die  to-night 
And  you  should  come  to  my  cold  corpse  and 
say, 
Weeping  and  heartsick  o'er  my  lifeless  clay  — 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 

And  you  should  come  in  deepest  grief  and  woe  — 
And  say  :  "  Here  's  that  ten  dollars  that  I  owe," 
I  might  arise  in  my  large  white  cravat 
And  say,  "  What 's  that  ?  " 

If  I  should  die  to-night 

And  you  should  come  to  my  cold  corpse  and  kneel, 
Clasping  my  bier  to  show  the  grief  you  feel, 

I  say,  if  I  should  die  to-night 
And  you  should  come  to  me,  and  there  and  then 
Just  even  hint  'bout  paying  me  that  ten, 

I  might  arise  the  while, 

But  I'd  drop  dead  again. 

Ben  King. 


F 


A    LOVE    SONG 

(In  the  modern  taste,  1733) 

BUTTERING  spread  thy  purple  pinions, 

Gentle  Cupid,  o'er  my  heart ; 
I,  a  slave  in  thy  dominions ; 

Nature  must  give  way  to  art. 
L  33i  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Mild  Arcadians,  ever  blooming, 
Nightly  nodding  o'er  your  flocks, 

See  my  weary  days  consuming 
All  beneath  yon  flowery  rocks. 

Thus  the  Cyprian  goddess  weeping 
Mourn'd  Adonis,  darling  youth ; 

Him  the  boar,  in  silence  creeping, 
Gored  with  unrelenting  tooth. 

Cynthia,  tune  harmonious  numbers, 
Fair  Discretion,  string  the  lyre ; 

Soothe  my  ever-waking  slumbers; 
Bright  Apollo,  lend  thy  choir. 

Gloomy  Pluto,  king  of  terrors, 

Arm'd  in  adamantine  chains, 
Lead  me  to  the  crystal  mirrors 

Watering  soft  Elysian  plains. 

Mourning  cypress,  verdant  willow, 

Gilding  my  Aurelia's  brows, 
Morpheus  hovering  o'er  my  pillow, 

Hear  me  pay  my  dying  vows. 

Melancholy  smooth  Meander, 

Swiftly  purling  in  a  round, 
On  thy  margin  lovers  wander, 
With  thy  flowery  chaplets  crowned. 

Thus  when  Philomela  drooping 

Softly  seeks  her  silent  mate, 
See  the  bird  of  Juno  stooping ; 

Melody  resigns  to  fate. 

Dean  Swift. 

[33'] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


OLD    FASHIONED   FUN 

WHEN  that  old  joke  was  new, 
It  was  not  hard  to  joke, 
And  puns  we  now  pooh-pooh, 
Great  laughter  would  provoke. 

True  wit  was  seldom  heard, 

And  humor  shown  by  few, 
When  reign'd  King  George  the  Third, 

And  that  old  joke  was  new. 

It  passed  indeed  for  wit, 

Did  this  achievement  rare, 
When  down  your  friend  would  sit, 

To  steal  away  his  chair. 

You  brought  him  to  the  floor, 
You  bruised  him  black  and  blue, 

And  this  would  cause  a  roar, 
When  your  old  joke  was  new. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


[  333  ] 


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THEMES   WITH  VARIATIONS 

HOME   SWEET    HOME   WITH 
VARIATIONS 

(Being  suggestions  of  the  various  styles  in  which  an  old 
theme  might  have  been  treated  by  certain  metrical 
composers} 

FANTASIA 

I 
The  original  theme  as  John  Howard  Payne  wrote  it  : 

'TV  yTID  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we   may 
I VI         roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like 
home  ! 

A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  it  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  not  met  with 
elsewhere. 

Home,  home  !  Sweet,  Sweet  Home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  Home  ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ! 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ! 
The  birds  singing  gaily  that  came  at  my  call ! 
Givemethem!  and  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all 

Home,  home  !   Sweet,  Sweet  Home! 
There's  no  place  like  Home  ! 
[334] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


II 

( As  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  might  have  wrapped 
it  up  in  variations} 

('Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  —  ) 

As   sea-foam  blown  of  the   winds,  as   blossom  of 

brine  that  is  drifted 

Hither  and  yon  on  the  barren  breast  of  the  breeze, 
Though  we   wander  on  gusts   of  a   god's  breath, 

shaken  and  shifted, 
The  salt  of  us  stings  and  is  sore  for  the  sobbing 

seas. 
For  home's   sake   hungry   at  heart,  we  sicken    in 

pillared  porches 

Of  bliss  made  sick  for  a  life  that  is  barren  of  bliss, 
For  the  place  whereon  is  a  light  out  of  heaven  that 

sears  not  nor  scorches, 
Nor  elsewhere  than  this. 

(An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain  — ) 

For  here  we  know  shall  no  gold  thing  glisten, 

No  bright  thing  burn,  and  no  sweet  thing  shine ; 
Nor  love  lower  never  an  ear  to  listen 

To  words  that  work  in  the  heart  like  wine. 
What  time  we  are  set  from  our  land  apart, 
For  pain  of  passion  and  hunger  of  heart, 
Though  we  walk  with  exiles  fame  faints  to  christen, 
Or  sing  at  the  Cytherean's  shrine. 

Variation  :  An  exile  from  home  —  ) 
[  335  ] 


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Whether  with  him  whose  head 

Of  gods  is  honored, 

With  song  made  splendent  in  the  sight  of  men  — 

Whose  heart  most  sweetly  stout, 

From  ravishing  France  cast  out, 
Being  firstly  hers,  was  hers  most  wholly  then  — 

Or  where  on  shining  seas  like  wine 

The  dove's  wings  draw  the  drooping  Erycine. 

(Give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  —  ) 

For  Joy  finds  Love  grow  bitter, 
And  spreads  his  wings  to  quit  her, 
At  thought  of  birds  that  twitter 

Beneath  the  roof-tree's  straw  — 

Of  birds  that  come  for  calling, 

No  fear  or  fright  appalling, 

When  dews  of  dusk  are  falling, 
Or  daylight's  draperies  draw. 

(Give  me  them,  and  the  peace  of  mind  —  ) 

Give  me  these  things  then  back,  though  the  giving 

Be  at  cost  of  earth's  garner  of  gold  ; 
There  is  no  life  without  these  worth  living, 

No  treasure  where  these  are  not  told. 
For  the  heart  give  the  hope  that  it  knows  not, 

Give  the  balm  for  the  burn  of  the  breast  — 
For  the  soul  and  the  mind  that  repose  not, 

Oh,  give  us  a  rest ! 


[  336  ] 


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III 

(As  Mr.  Francis  Bret  Harte  might  have  woven  it  into 
a  touching  tale  of  a  western  gentleman  in  a  red  shirt) 

Brown  o'  San  Juan, 

Stranger,  I  'm  Brown.    . 
Come  up  this  mornin'  from  'Frisco  — 

Be'n  a-saltin'  my  specie-stacks  down. 

Be'n  a-knockin*  around, 

Fer  a  man  from  San  Juan, 
Putty  consid'able  frequent  — 

Jes'  catch  onter  that  streak  o'  the  dawn  ! 

Right  thar  lies  my  home  — 

Right  thar  in  the  red  — 
I  could  slop  over,  stranger,  in  po'try — 

Would  spread  out  old  Shakspoke  cold  dead. 

Stranger,  you  freeze  to  this  :   there  ain't  no  kinder 

gin-palace, 

Nor  no  variety-show  lays  over  a  man's  own  rancho. 
Maybe  it   hain't  no    style,  but   the   Queen  in  the 

Tower  o'  London, 
Ain't  got  naathin'  I  'd   swop  for  that  house  over 

thar  on  the  hill-side. 

Thar  is  my  ole  gal,  V  the  kids,  V  the  rest  o'  my 

live-stock ; 
Thar   my    Remington   hangs,   and  thar  there's  a 

griddle-cake  br'ilin'  — 
[22]  [337] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


For  the  two  of  us,  pard  —  and  thar,  I  allow,  the 

heavens 
Smile  more  friendly-like  than  on  any  other  locality. 

Stranger,  nowhere  else  I  don't  take  no  satisfaction. 
Gimme  my  ranch,  'n'  them  friendly  old  Shanghai 

chickens  — 
I  brung  the  original  pair  f'm  the  States  in  eighteen- 

V-fifty  — 
Gimme  me  them  and  the  feelin'  of  solid  domestic 

comfort. 

Yer  parding,  young  man  — 

But  this  landscape  a  kind 
Er  flickers  —  I  'low  't  wuz  the  po'try  — 

I  thought  that  my  eyes  hed  gone  blind. 

Take  that  pop  from  my  belt ! 

Hi,  thar  !  —  gimme  yer  han' — 
Or  I  '11  kill  myself —  Lizzie  —  she  's  left  me  — 

Gone  off  with  a  purtier  man  ! 

Thar,  I  '11  quit  —  the  ole  gal 

An'  the  kids  —  run  away  ! 
I  be  derned  !   Howsomever,  come  in,  pard  — 

The  griddle-cake  's  thar,  anyway. 


[338] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


IV 

(As  Austin  Dobson  might  have  translated  it  from 
Horace,  if  it  had  ever  occurred  to  Horace  to 
write  it) 

RONDEAU 

At  home  alone,  O  Nomades, 
Although  Maecenas'  marble  frieze 

Stand  not  between  you  and  the  sky, 

Nor  Persian  luxury  supply 
Its  rosy  surfeit,  find  ye  ease. 

Tempt  not  the  far  ^Egean  breeze  ; 
With  home-made  wine  and  books  that  please, 
To  duns  and  bores  the  door  deny, 
At  home,  alone. 

Strange  joys  may  lure.     Your  deities 
Smile  here  alone.     Oh,  give  me  these : 
Low  eaves,  where  birds  familiar  fly, 
And  peace  of  mind,  and,  fluttering  by, 
My  Lydia's  graceful  draperies, 
At  home,  alone. 


[339] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


{As  it  might  have  been  constructed  in  1744,  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  at  19,  writing  the  first  stanza,  and 
Alexander  Pope,  at  52,  the  second) 

Home  !   at  the  word,  what  blissful  visions  rise, 
Lift  us  from  earth,  and  draw  toward  the  skies ; 
'Mid  mirag'd  towers,  or  meretricious  joys, 
Although  we  roam,  one  thought  the  mind  employs  : 
Or  lowly  hut,  good  friend,  or  loftiest  dome, 
Earth  knows  no  spot  so  holy  as  our  Home. 
There,  where  affection  warms  the  father's  breast, 
There  is  the  spot  of  heav'n  most  surely  blest. 
Howe'er   we   search,  though  wandering  with   the 

wind 

Through  frigid  Zembla,  or  the  heats  of  Ind, 
Not  elsewhere  may  we  seek,  nor  elsewhere  know, 
The  light  of  heaven  upon  our  dark  below. 

When  from  our  dearest  hope  and  haven  reft, 
Delight  nor  dazzles,  nor  is  luxury  left, 
We  long,  obedient  to  our  nature's  law, 
To  see  again  our  hovel  thatched  with  straw  : 
See  birds  that  know  our  avenaceous  store 
Stoop  to  our  hand,  and  thence  repleted  soar  : 
But,  of  all  hopes  the  wanderer's  soul  that  share, 
His  pristine  peace  of  mind  's  his  final  prayer. 


[  34<>] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


VI 

Walt   Whitman    might  have  written    all 
around  it) 


You  over  there,  young  man  with  the  guide-book, 
red-bound,  covered  flexibly  with  red  linen, 

Come  here,  I  want  to  talk  with  you  ;   I,  Walt,  the 
Manhattanese,   citizen    of  these    States,    call 
•  you. 

Yes,  and  the  courier,  too,  smirking,  smug-mouthed, 
with  oil'd  hair;  a  garlicky  look  about  him 
generally ;  him,  too,  I  take  in,  just  as  I 
would  a  coyote  or  a  king,  or  a  toad-stool,  or 
a  ham-sandwich,  or  anything,  or  anybody  else 
in  the  world. 

Where  are  you  going  ? 

You  want  to  see  Paris,  to  eat  truffles,  to  have  a 
good  time;  in  Vienna,  London,  Florence, 
Monaco,  to  have  a  good  time ;  you  want  to 
see  Venice. 

Come  with  me.  I  will  give  you  a  good  time ;  I 
will  give  you  all  the  Venice  you  want,  and 
most  of  the  Paris. 

I,  Walt,  I  call  to.  you.  I  am  all  on  deck  !  Come 
and  loafe  with  me  !  Let  me  tote  you  around 
by  your  elbow  and  show  you  things. 

You  listen  to  my  ophicleide  ! 

Home  ! 

[34-    ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Home,  I  celebrate.     I  elevate  my  fog-whistle,  in- 

spir'd  by  the  thought  of  home. 
Come  in! — take  a  front  seat;  the  jostle  of  the 

crowd   not  minding ;   there  is   room  enough 

for  all  of  you. 
This  is  my  exhibition  —  it  is  the  greatest   show 

on  earth  —  there  is  no  charge  for  admission. 
All  you  have  to  pay  me  is  to  take  in  my  romanza. 

II 

1.  The  brown-stone  house;    the    father    coming 

home  worried  from  a  bad  day's  business; 
the  wife  meets  him  in  the  marble  pav'd  vesti- 
bule ;  she  throws  her  arms  about  him ;  she 
presses  him  close  to  her ;  she  looks  him  full 
in  the  face  with  affectionate  eyes ;  the  frown 
from  his  brow  disappearing. 
Darling,  she  says,  Johnny  has  fallen  down 
and  cut  his  head;  the  cook  is  going  away, 
and  the  boiler  leaks. 

2.  The   mechanic's  dark  little    third-story  room, 

seen  in  a  flash  from  the  Elevated  Railway 
train;  the  sewing-machine  in  a  corner;  the 
small  cook-stove;  the  whole  family  eating 
cabbage  around  a  kerosene  lamp ;  of  the 
clatter  and  roar  and  groaning  wail  of  the 
Elevated  train  unconscious ;  of  the  smell  of 
the  cabbage  unconscious. 
Me,  passant,  in  the  train,  of  the  cabbage  not 
quite  so  unconscious. 

3.  The  French  Flat;  the  small  rooms,  all  right- 

[34*] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


angles,  unindividual ;  the  narrow  halls ;  the 
gaudy,  cheap  decorations  everywhere. 
The  janitor  and  the  cook  exchanging  compliments 
up  and  down  the  elevator-shaft ;  the  refusal 
to  send  up  more  coal,  the  solid  splash  of  the 
water  upon  his  head,  the  language  he  sends 
up  the  shaft,  the  triumphant  laughter  of  the 
cook,  to  her  kitchen  retiring. 

4.  The  widow's  small  house  in  the  suburbs  of  the 

city ;  the  widow's  boy  coming  home  from  his 
first  day  down  town ;  he  is  flushed  with 
happiness  and  pride ;  he  is  no  longer  a 
school-boy,  he  is  earning  money  ;  he  takes 
on  the  airs  of  a  man  and  talks  learnedly  of 
business. 

5.  The  room   in  the   third-class  boarding-house ; 

the  mean  little  hard-coal  fire,  the  slovenly 
Irish  servant-girl  making  it,  the  ashes  on 'the 
hearth,  the  faded  furniture,  the  private  pro- 
vender hid  away  in  the  closet,  the  dreary  back- 
yard out  the  window  ;  the  young  girl  at  the 
glass,  with  her  mouth  full  of  hairpins,  doing 
up  her  hair  to  go  downstairs  and  flirt  with 
the  young  fellows  in  the  parlor. 

6.  The  kitchen  of  the  old  farm-house  ;  the  young 

convict  just  returned  from  prison  —  it  was  his 
first  offense,  and  the  judges  were  lenient  on 
him. 

He  is  taking  his  first  meal  out  of  prison  ;  he  has 

been  received  back,  kiss'd,  encourag'd  to  start 

again  ;  his  lungs,  his<postrils  expand  with  the 

big  breaths    of   free   air ;    with   shame,   with 

[  343  ] 


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wonderment,  with  a  trembling  joy,  his  heart 
too,  expanding. 

The  old  mother  busies  herself  about  the  table  ; 
she  has  ready  for  him  the  dishes  he  us'd  to 
like  ;  the  father  sits  with  his  back  to  them, 
reading  the  newspaper,  the  newspaper  shaking 
and  rustling  much  ;  the  children  hang  won- 
dering around  the  prodigal — they  have  been 
caution'd  :  Do  not  ask  where  our  Jim  has 
been  \  only  say  you  are  glad  to  see  him. 

The  elder  daughter  is  there,  palefac'd,  quiet ;  her 
young  man  went  back  on  her  four  years  ago ; 
his  folks  would  not  let  him  marry  a  convict's 
sister.  She  sits  by  the  window,  sewing  on 
the  children's  clothes,  the  clothes  not  only 
patching  up ;  her  Hunger  for  children  of  her 
own  invisibly  patching  up. 

The  brother  looks  up ;  he  catches  her  eye,  he  fear- 
ful, apologetic  ;  she  smiles  back  at  him,  not 
reproachfully  smiling,  with  loving  pretence  of 
hope  smiling  —  it  is  too  much  for  him  ;  he 
buries  his  face  in  the  folds  of  the  mother's 
black  gown. 

7.  The  best  room  of  the  house,  on  the  Sabbath 
only  open'd  ;  the  smell  of  horse-hair  furniture 
and  mahogany  varnish  ;  the  ornaments  on  the 
what-not  in  the  corner;  the  wax  fruit,  dusty, 
sunken,  sagged  in,  consumptive-looking,  un- 
der a  glass  globe,  the  sealing-wax  imitation  of 
coral ;  the  cigar  boxes  with  shells  plastered 
over,  the  perforate^  card-board  motto. 

The  kitchen  ;  the  housewife  sprinkling  the  clothes 
[  344  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


for  the  fine  ironing  to-morrow  —  it  is  the 
Third-day  night,  and  the  plain  things  are 
ready  iron'd,  now  in  cupboards,  in  drawers 
stowed  away. 

The  wife  waiting  for  the  husband  —  he  is  at  the 
tavern,  jovial,  carousing  ;  she,  alone  in  the 
kitchen  sprinkling  clothes  —  the  little  red 
wood  clock  with  peaked  top,  with  pendulum 
wagging  behind  a  pane  of  gayly  painted  glass, 
strikes  twelve. 

The  sound  of  the  husband's  voice  on  the  still  night 
air  —  he  is  singing  :  "  We  won't  go  home  un- 
til morning  !  "  —  the  wife  arising,  toward  the 
wood-shed  hastily  going,  stealthily  entering, 
the  voice  all  the  time  coming  nearer,  inebriate, 
chantant. 

The  husband  passing  the  door  of  the  wood-shed  ; 
the  club  over  his  head,  now  with  his  head  in 
contact ;  the  sudden  cessation  of  the  song  ; 
the  benediction  of  peace  over  the  domestic 
foyer  temporarily  resting. 

I  sing  the  soothing  influences  of  home. 

You,  young   man,  thoughtlessly   wandering,    with 

courier,  with  guide-book  wandering, 
You  hearken  to  the  melody  of  my  steam-calliope 
Yawp  ! 

Henry  Cuyler  Eunner 


[345] 


A    P  arody    Ant  ho  logy 


MODERN   VERSIFICATION   ON 
ANCIENT   THEMES 

GOOSE   A   LA   MODE 

—  Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary, 
How  does  your  garden  grow  ? 

WITHIN  the  garden's  deepness  filled  of  light 
Stood    Mary,    and    upon    her    fair    green 
gown 

Fell  glory  of  gold  hair,  a  stern  sweet  frown 
Was  on  her  forehead,  slim  cold  hands  and  white 
Made  ending  of  her  long  pale  arms'  delight. 

And  questioning,  I  —  "  How  does  your  garden 

grow  ?  " 
Then  she  —  u  With  bells  that  ring,  and  shells  that 

sing 
Of  strange  gray  seas,  with  fair,  strong  hands  that 

cling 
Together,  stand  tall  damozels  a-row." 

Elizabeth  Ca 

THREE   CHILDREN   SLIDING 


F 


—  Three  children  sliding  on  the  ice 
All  on  a  summer's  day. 

OUR  are  the  names  of  the  seasons  —  spring, 

summer,  autumn,  and  winter. 
Summer  is  hot  and  winter  is  cold,  while  the 
others  partake  in 

[  346] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Greater  or  less  degree  of  cold  and  caloric  com- 
mingled. 

Surely,  I  think,  it  is  well  to  be  good,  and  my  mind 
is  astonished 

At  the  exceeding  sin  of  sinfulness,  whereof  the  perils 

Shown  in  my  verse  are  apparent.  Three  rosy 
children  were  sliding 

Over  the  ice  in  summer  and  —  fate  so  decreeing, 
it  happened  — 

Fell  through  the  ice  and  were  drowned.  Had  these 
"children  in  winter  been  sliding 

On  the  bare  earth,  or  had  they,  by  the  peaceful 
fireside  sitting, 

Studied  their  catechism,  it  were  strange  —  so  the 
novel  thought  strikes  me  — 

Even  in  summer's  heat  had  the  ice  broken  suddenly 
under 

Avoirdupois  of  these  babes,  and  diluted  the  well- 
springs  of  pleasure. 


JACK   AND   JILL 

—  Jack  and  Jill  went  up  a  hill 
To  draw  a  pail  of  water. 

WHAT  moan  is  made  of  the  mountain,  what 
sob  of  the  hillside, 
Why  a  lament  of  the  south  wind,  and  rain- 
fall as  tears  ? 

Brother  and  sister,  once  bodies  and  spirits  together, 
Fell  as  fair  ghosts  down  the  sad  swift  slope  of 
the  years. 

[347] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Where  is  the  fount  on  the  mount  where  the  thrill 

of  water 

Sang  as  a  siren  its  song  to  the  steep  beneath  ? 
Where  are  the  feet  of  the  son  and  the  fair-eyed 

daughter, 

Feet  drawn  aside  of  Fate,  and  set  in  the  path- 
way of  Death  ! 

Ah  cruel  earth  and  hard,  ah,  pitiless  laughter 

Made  of  the  waters,  when,  shattered  his  golden 

crown, 

Fell  the  fair  boy  as  a  star,  and  his  sister  after, 
To  the  field  of  the  dead,  to  its  cold  and    the 
darkness  unknown  ! 

Elizabeth  Cavazza. 


JACK   AND    JILL 
(As  Austin  Dobson  might  have  written  it) 

rrNHEIR  pail  they  must  fill 

In  a  crystalline  springlet, 
Brave  Jack  and  fair  Jill. 
Their  pail  they  must  fill 
At  the  top  of  the  hill, 

Then  she  gives  him  a  ringlet. 
Their  pail  they  must  fill 
In  a  crystalline  springlet. 

They  stumbled  and  fell, 

And  poor  Jack  broke  his  forehead, 
Oh,  how  he  did  yell  ! 
They  stumbled  and  fell, 

[  348 1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  went  down  pell-mell  — 

By  Jove  !  it  was  horrid. 
They  stumbled  and  fell, 

And  poor  Jack' broke  his  forehead. 

(As  Swinburne  might  have  written  it) 

The  shuddering  sheet  of  rain  athwart  the  trees  ! 
The  crashing  kiss  of  lightning  on  the  seas  ! 

The  moaning  of  the  night  wind  on  the  wold, 
That  erstwhile  was  a  gentle,  murm'ring  breeze ! 

On  such  a  night  as  this  went  Jill  and  Jack 

With  strong  and  sturdy   strides  through  dampness 

black 

To  find  the  hill's  high  top  and  water  cold, 
Then  toiling  through  the  town  to  bear  it  back. 

The  water  drawn,  they  rest  awhile.     Sweet  sips 
Of  nectar  then  for  Jack  from  Jill's  red  lips, 

And  then  with  arms  entwined  they  homeward  go  ; 
Till  mid  the  *nad  mud's  moistened  mush  Jack  slips. 

Sweet  Heaven,  draw  a  veil  on  this  sad  plight, 

His  crazed  cries  and  cranium  cracked  ;  the  fright 

Of  gentle  Jill,  her  wretchedness  and  wo  ! 
Kind  Phoebus,  drive  thy  steeds  and  end  this  night ! 

(As  Walt  Whitman  might  have  written  if) 

I  celebrate  the  personality  of  Jack  ! 
I  love  his  dirty  hands,  his  tangled  hair,  his  locomo- 
tion blundering. 

[  349] 


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Each  wart  upon  his  hands  I  sing, 

Paeans  I  chant  to  his  hulking  shoulder  blades. 

Also  Jill  ! 

Her  I  celebrate. 

I,  Walt,  of  unbridled  thought  and  tongue, 

Whoop  her  up  ! 

What  's  the  matter  with  Jill  ? 

Oh,  she  's  all  right ! 

Who  's  all  right  ? 

Jill. 

Her  golden  hair,  her  sun-struck  face,  her  hard  and 

reddened  hands ; 

So,  too,  her  feet,  hefty,  shambling. 
I  see  them  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun  empurples 

the  horizon,  and  through  the  darkening  forest 

aisles  are  heard  the  sounds  of  myriad  creatures 

of  the  night. 
I  see  them  climb  the  steep  ascent  in  quest  of  water 

for  their  mother. 
Oh,  speaking  of  her,  I  could  celebrate  the  old  lady 

if  I  had  time. 
She  is  simply  immense  ! 

But  Jack  and  Jill  are  walking  up  the  hill. 
(I  did  n't  mean  that  rhyme.) 
I  must  watch  them. 
I  love  to  watch  their  walk, 
And  wonder  as  I  watch  ; 
He,  stoop-shouldered,  clumsy,  hide-bound, 
Yet  lusty, 

Bearing  his  share  of  the   i-lb   bucket  as  though  it 
were  a  paperweight. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


She,  erect,  standing,  her  head  uplifting, 
Holding,  but  bearing  not  the  bucket. 

They  have  reached  the  spring. 

They  have  filled  the  bucket. 

Have  you  heard  the  "Old  Oaken  Bucket"  ? 

I  will  sing  it  :  — 

Of  what  countless  patches  is  the  bed-quilt  of  life 

composed  ! 

Here  is  a  piece  of  lace.     A  babe  is  born. 
The  father  is  happy,  the  mother  is  happy.    • 
Next  black  crepe.     A  beldame  "shuffles  off  this 

mortal  coil." 

Now  brocaded  satin  with  orange  blossoms, 
Mendelssohn's   "Wedding   March,"  an   old  shoe 

missile, 
A  broken  carnage  window,  the  bride  in  the  Bellevue 

sleeping. 

Here  's  a  large  piece  of  black  cloth ! 
"  Have  you  any  last  words  to  say  ?  " 
"  No." 

"  Sheriff,  do  your  work  !  " 
Thus  it   is :   from  "  grave  to  gay,  from   lively  to 

severe." 

I  mourn  the  downfall  of  my  Jack  and  Jill. 

I  see  them  descending,  obstacles  not  heeding. 

I  see  them  pitching  headlong,  the  water  from  the 
pail  outpouring,  a  noise  from  leathern  lungs 
out-belching. 

The  shadows  of  the  night  descend  on  Jack,  recum- 
bent, bellowing,  his  pate  with  gore  besmeared. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  love  his  cowardice,  because  it  is  an  attribute,  just 

like 
Job's   patience  or  Solomon's  wisdom,  and  I  love 

attributes. 
Whoop  !  !  ! 

Charles  Eattell  Loomis, 


THE  REJECTED  "  NATIONAL  HYMNS  " 

i 

BY  H — Y  W.  L-NGF — w 

BACK   in  the  years  when  Phlagstaff,  the  Dane, 
was  monarch 
Over  the  sea-ribb'd  land  of  the  fleet-footed 
Norsemen, 
Once  there  went  forth  young  Ursa  to  gaze  at  the 

heavens  — 
Ursa  —  the  noblest  of  all  the  kings  and  horsemen. 

Musing,  he  sat  in  his  stirrups  and  viewed  the  horizon, 
Where  the  Aurora  lapt  stars   in   a  North-polar 

manner, 
Wildly  he  stared,  —  for  there  in  the  heavens  before 

him 

Fluttered  and   flam'd   the  original  Star 
Banner. 


[35*] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


II 

BY  J-HN  GR — NL — F  WH — T — R 

My  Native  Land,  thy  Puritanic  stock 
Still  finds  its  roots  firm-bound  in  Plymouth  Rock, 
And  all  thy  sons  unite  in  one  grand  wish  — 
To  keep  the  virtues  of  Preserved  Fish. 

Preserved  Fish,  the  Deacon  stern  and  true 
Told  our  New  England  what  her  sons  should  do, 
And  if  they  swerve  from  loyalty  and  right, 
Then  the  whole  land  is  lost  indeed  in  night. 

Ill 
BY  DR.  OL-V-R   W-ND — L   H-LMES 

A  diagnosis  of  our  history  proves 

Our  native  land  a  land  its  native  loves  ; 

Its  birth  a  deed  obstetric  without  peer, 

Its  growth  a  source  of  wonder  far  and  near. 

• 

To  love  it  more,  behold  how  foreign  shores 
Sink  into  nothingness  beside  its  stores; 
Hyde  Park  at  best  —  though  counted  ultra-grand  — 
The  "  Boston  Common  "  of  Victoria's  land. 


[23]  f  353  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


IV 

BY  RALPH  W-LDO  EM-R — N 

Source  immaterial  of  material  naught, 

Focus  of  light  infinitesimal, 
Sum  of  all  things  by  sleepless  Nature  wrought, 

Of  which  the  normal  man  is  decimal. 

Refract,  in  Prism  immortal,  from  thy  stars 
To  the  stars  bent  incipient  on  our  flag, 

The  beam  translucent,  neutrifying  death, 
And  raise  to  immortality  the  rag. 

V 

BY  W-LL — M     C-LL-N  B-Y-NT 

The  sun  sinks  softly  to  his  Ev'ning  Post, 

The  sun  swells  grandly  to  his  morning  crown ; 

Yet  not  a  star  our  Flag  of  Heav'n  has  lost, 
And  not  a  sunset  stripe  with  him  goes  down, 

So  thrones  may  fall,  and  from  the  dust  of  those, 
New  thrones  may  rise,  to  totter  like  the  last ; 

But  still  our  Country's  nobler  planet  glows 
While  the  eternal  stars  of  Heaven  are  fast. 


135+1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


VI 

BY    N.    P.    W-LLIS 

One  hue  of  our  Flag  is  taken 

From  the  cheeks  of  my  blushing  Pet, 

And  its  stars  beat  time,  and  sparkle 
Like  the  studs  on  her  chemisette. 

Its  blue  is  the  ocean  shadow 
That  hides  in  her  dreamy  eyes, 

It  conquers  all  men,  like  her, 
And  still  for  a  Union  flies. 

VII 
BY  TH-M-S  B-IL-Y  ALD — CH 

The  little  brown  squirrel  hops  in  the  corn, 

The  cricket  quaintly  sings, 
The  emerald  pigeon  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  in  the  river  springs, 
The  dainty  sunflower  hangs  its  head 

On  the  shore  of  the  summer  sea  ; 
And  better  far  that  I  were  dead, 

If  Maud  did  not  love  me. 

I  love  the  squirrel  that  hops  in  the  corn, 
And  the  cricket  that  quaintly  sings  ; 

And  the  emerald  pigeon  that  nods  his  head, 
And  the  shad  that  gaily  springs. 
[  355  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


I  love  the  dainty  sunflower  too, 

And  Maud  with  her  snowy  breast ; 

I  love  them  all ;  but  I  love  —  I  love  — 
I  love  my  country  best. 

Robert  Henry  Newell. 
("Orpheus  C.  Kerr.") 

A   THEME   WITH   VARIATIONS 

THEME 

RIDE  a  cock-horse  to  Banbury  Cross, 
To  see  a  fine  lady  ride  on  a  white  horse  ; 
With  rings  on  her  fingers,  and  bells  on  her 

toes, 
She  shall  have  music  wherever  she  goes. 

(Variation  L  —  Edmund  Spenser^) 

So  on  he  pricked,  and  loe,  he  gan  espy, 
A  market  and  a  crosse  of  glist'ning  stone, 

And  eke  a  merrie  rablement  thereby, 

That  with  the  musik  of  the  strong  trombone, 
And  shaumes,  and  trompets  made  most  dyvillish 
mone. 

And  in  their  midst  he  saw  a  lady  sweet, 
That  rode  upon  a  milk  white  steed  alone, 

In  scarlet  robe  ycladd  and  wimple  meet, 

Bedight  with  rings  of  gold,  and  bells  about  her  feet 

Whereat  the  knight  empassioned  was  so  deepe, 
His  heart  was  perst  with  very  agony. 

Certes  (said  he)  I  will  not  eat,  ne  sleepe, 
Till  I  have  seen  the  royall  maid  more  ny  ; 

[  356  ] 


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Then  will  I  holde  her  in  fast  fealtie, 
Whom  then  a  carle  advised,  louting  low, 

That  little  neede  there  was  for  him  to  die, 
Sithens  in  yon  pavilion  was  the  show, 
Where  she  did  ride,  and  he  for  two-and-six  mote  go 

(Variation  II.  —  Dr.  Jonathan  Swift) 

Our  Chloe,  fresh  from  London  town, 

To  country  B y  comes  down. 

Furnished  with  half-a-thousand  graces 
Of  silks,  brocades,  and  hoops,  and  laces  ; 
And  tired  of  winning  coxcombs'  hearts, 
On  simple  bumpkins  tries  her  arts. 
Behold  her  ambling  down  the  street 
On  her  white  palfrey,  sleek  and  neat. 
(Though  rumor  talks  of  gaming-tables, 

And  says  't  was  won  from  C 's  stables. 

And  that,  when  duns  demand  their  bill, 
She  satisfies  them  at  quadrille.) 
Her  fingers  are  encased  with  rings, 
Although  she  vows  she  hates  the  things. 
(u  Oh,  la  !     Why  ever  did  you  buy  it  ? 
Well  —  it 's  a  pretty  gem  —  I  '11  try  it.") 
The  fine  French  fashions  all  combine 
To  make  folk  stare,  and  Chloe  shine, 
From  ribbon'd  hat  with  monstrous  feather, 
To  bells  upon  her  under-leather. 
Now  Chloe,  why,  do  you  suppose, 
You  wear  those  bells  about  your  toes  ? 
Is  it,  your  feet  with  bells  you  deck 
For  want  of  bows  about  your  neck  ? 
[357  J 


A    Parody    Anthology 


(Variation  III — Sir  Walter  Scott 

From  "  The  Lady  of  the  Cake'' 

"  Who  is  this  maid  in  wild  array, 

And  riding  in  that  curious  way  ? 

What  mean  the  bells  that  jingle  free 

About  her  as  in  revelry  ?  " 

u  'T  is  Madge  of  Banbury,"   Roderick  said. 

"  And  she 's  a  trifle  off  her  head, 

'T  was  on  her  bridal  morn,  I  ween, 

When  she  to  Graeme  had  wedded  been, 

The  man  who  undertook  to  bake 

Never  sent  home  the  wedding  cake  ! 

Since  then  she  wears  those  bells  and  rings, 

Since  then  she  rides  —  but,  hush,  she  sings." 

She  sung  !     The  voice  in  other  days 

It  had  been  difficult  to  praise, 

And  now  it  every  sweetness  lacked, 

And  voice  and  singer  both  were  cracked. 


SONG 

They  bid  me  ride  the  other  way, 

They  say  my  brain  is  warp'd  and  wrung, 
But,  oh  !  the  bridal  bells  are  gay 

That  I  about  my  feet  have  strung  ! 
And  when  I  face  the  horse's  tail 
I  see  once  more  in  Banbury's  vale 
My  Graeme's  white  plume  before  me  wave, 
So  thus  I'll  ride  until  the  grave. 
[  358  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


They  say  that  this  is  not  my  home, 

'Mid  Scotland's  moors  and  Scotland's  brakes. 
But,  oh  !   't  is  love  that  makes  me  "roam 

Forever  in  the  land  of  cakes  ! 
And  woe  betide  the  baker's  guile, 
Whose  blight  destroyed  the  maiden's  smile  ! 
O  woe  the  day,  and  woe  the  deed, 
And  woa  —  gee  woa  —  my  bonnie  steed  ! 

Barry  Pain. 

THE  POETS  AT  TEA 

1 .  —  {Macaulay,  who  made  it) 

POUR,  varlet,  pour  the  water, 
The  water  steaming  hot  ! 
A  spoonful  for  each  man  of  us, 
Another  for  the  pot ! 
We  shall  not  drink  from  amber, 

Nor  Capuan  slave  shall  mix 
For  us  the  snows  of  Athos 
With  port  at  thirty-six ; 
Whiter  than  snow  the  crystals, 

Grown  sweet  'neath  tropic  fires, 
More  rich  the  herbs  of  China's  field, 
The  pasture-lands  more  fragrance  yield ; 
For  ever  let  Britannia  wield 
The  tea-pot  of  her  sires  ! 

2.  —  (Tennyson,  who  took  it  hot) 

I  think  that  I  am  drawing  to  an  end  :• 
For  on  a  sudden  came  a  gasp  for  breath, 

F  359] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


And  stretching  of  the  hands,  and  blinded  eyes, 
And  a  great  darkness  falling  on  my  soul. 
O  Hallelujah !  .  .  .     Kindly  pass  the  milk. 

3.  —  (Swinburne,  who  let  it  get  cold) 

As  the  sin  that  was  sweet  in  the  sinning 

Is  foul  in  the  ending  thereof, 
As  the  heat  of  the  summer's  beginning 

Is  past  in  the  winter  of  love : 
O  purity,  painful  and  pleading ! 

0  coldness,  ineffably  gray  ! 

Oh,  hear  us,  our  handmaid  unheeding, 
And  take  it  away ! 

4,  — (Gowper,  who  thoroughly  enjoyed  it) 

The  cosy  fire  is  bright  and  gay, 
The  merry  kettle  boils  away 

And  hums  a  cheerful  song. 

1  sing  the  saucer  and  the  cup ; 
Pray,  Mary,  fill  the  tea-pot  up, 

And  do  not  make  it  strong. 

5 .  —  (Browning,  who  treated  it  allegoric  ally) 

Tut !  Bah  !     We  take  as  another  case  — 

Pass  the  bills  on  the  pills  on  the  window-sill; 

notice  the  capsule 
(A  sick  man's  fancy,  no  doubt,  but  I  place 

Reliance    on    trade-marks,    Sir)  —  so     perhaps 
you  '11 

[36o] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Excuse  the  digression  —  this  cup  which  I  hold 
Light-poised  —  Bah,  it's    spilt    in   the   bed!  — 
well,  let 's.  on  go  — 

Hold  Bohea  and  sugar,  Sir ;   if  you  were  told 
The  sugar  was  salt,  would  the  Bohea  be  Congo  ? 

6.  —  (Wordsworth,  who  gave  it  away) 

"  Come,  little  cottage  girl,  you  seem 

To  want  my  cup  of  tea ; 
And  will  you  take  a  little  cream  ? 

Now  tell  the  truth  to  me." 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  grin, 

Her  cheek  was  soft  as  silk, 
And  she  replied,  u  Sir,  please  put  in 

A  little  drop  of  milk." 

u  Why,  what  put  milk  into  your  head  ? 

'T  is  cream  my  cows  supply  ; " 
And  five  times  to  the  child  I  said, 

"  Why,  pig-head,  tell  me,  why  ?  " 

"  You  call  me  pig-head,"  she  replied  ; 

u  My  proper  name  is  Ruth. 
I'called  that  milk  "  — she  blushed  with  pride  — 

"  You  bade  me  speak  the  truth." 


[  361 1 


A    Parody    Anthology 


7.  —  (Poe,  who  got  excited  over  it) 

Here  's  a  mellow  cup  of  tea,  golden  tea  ! 
What  a  world  of  rapturous  thought  its  fragrance 
brings  to  me  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  silver  cells 

How  it  wells  ! 

How  it  smells  ! 
Keeping  tune,  tune,  tune 
To  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  spoon. 
And  the  kettle  on  the  fire 
Boils  its  spout  off  with  desire, 
With  a  desperate  desire        9 
And  a  crystalline  endeavour 
Now,  now  to  sit,  or  never, 
On  the  top  of  the  pale-faced  moor^ 
But  he  always  came  home  to  tea,  tea,  tea,  tea,  tea, 
Tea  to  the  n — th. 

8.  —  (Rossetti,  who  took  six  cups  of  if) 

The  lilies  lie  in  my  lady's  bower 
(O  weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost), 
They  faintly  droop  for  a  little  hour ; 
My  lady's  head  droops  like  a  flower. 

She  took  the  porcelain  in  her  hand 
(O  weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost); 
She  poured  ;   I  drank  at  her  command ; 
Drank  deep,  and  now  —  you  understand! 
(O  weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost.) 

[362] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


9.  —  (Burns,  who  liked  it  adulterated) 

Weel,  gin  ye  speir,  I  'm  no  inclined, 
Whusky  or  tay  —  to  state  my  mind, 

Fore  ane  or  ither ; 
For,  gin  I  tak  the  first,  I  'm  fou, 
And  gin  the  next,  I  'm  dull  as  you, 
Mix  a'  thegither. 

10. — (Walt   Whitman,  who  didn't   stay  more 
than  a  minute) 

One  cup  for  my  self-hood, 

Many  for  you.      Aliens,  camerados,  we  will  drink 
together, 

O  hand-in-hand  !     That  tea-spoon,  please,  when 
you  've  done  with  it. 

What   butter-colour'd   hair  you  've  got.     I   don't 
want  to  be  personal. 

All    right,   then,  you    need  n't.     You  're   a   stale- 
cadaver. 

Eighteen-pence  if  the  bottles  are  returned. 

Allons,  from  all  bat-eyed  formula. 

Barry  Pain. 


THE    POETS   AT    A    HOUSE-PARTY 

(A  modern  mortal  having  inadvertently  stumbled  in 
upon  a  home-party  of  poets  given  on  Mount  Olympus, 
being  called  upon  to  justify  his  presence  there  by  writing 
\  3«1  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


a  poem,  offered  a  Limerick.  Whereupon  each  poet 
scoffed,  and  the  mortal,  offended,  challenged  them  to 
do  better  with  the  same  theme) 

The  Limerick 

A  SCHOLARLY  person  named  Finck 
Went  mad  in  the  effort  to  think 
Which  were  graver  misplaced, 
To  dip  pen  in  his  paste, 
Or  dip  his  paste-brush  in  the  ink. 

{Omar  Khayyatrfs  version) 

Stay,  fellow-traveler,  let  us  stop  and  think, 
Pause  and  reflect  on  the  abysmal  brink ; 

Say,  would  you  rather  thrust  your  pen  in  paste, 
Or  dip  your  paste-brush  carelessly  in  ink  ? 

(Rudyard  Kipling s  version) 

Here  is  a  theme  that  is  worthy  of  our  cognizance, 
A  theme  of  great  importance  and  a  question  for 

your  ken  ; 

Would  you  rather  —  stop  and  think  well  — 
Dip  your  paste-brush  in  your  ink-well, 

Or  in  your  pesky  pasting-pot  immerse  your  ink^ 
pen  ? 

(Walt   Whitman's  version) 

Hail,  Camerados  ! 
I  salute  you, 

Also  I  salute  the  sewing-machine,  and  the  flour- 
barrel,  and  the  feather-duster. 

[  364  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


What  is  an  aborigine,  anyhow  ? 
I  see  a  paste-pot. 
Ay,  arid  a  well  of  ink. 
Well,  well  ! 
Which  shall  I  do  r 
Ah,  the  immortal  fog. 
What  am  I  myself 
But  a  meteor 
In  the  fog  ? 

(Chaucer's  version^ 

A  mayde  ther  ben,  a  wordy  one  and  wyse, 
Who  wore  a  paire  of  gogles  on  her  eyes. 
O'er  theemes  of  depest  thogt  her  braine  she  werked, 
Nor  ever  any  knoty  problemme  sherked. 
Yette  when  they  askt  her  if  she  'd  rather  sinke 
Her  penne  in  payste,  or  eke  her  brushe  in  inke, 
"  Ah,"  quo'  the  canny  mayde,  u  now  wit  ye  wel, 
I'm  wyse  enow  to  know  —  too  wyse  to  tel." 

(Henry   James'  version^) 

She  luminously  wavered,  and  I  tentatively  in- 
ferred that  she  would  soon  perfectly  reconsider  her 
not  altogether  unobvious  course.  Furiously,  though 
with  a  tender,  ebbing  similitude,  across  her  mental 
consciousness  stole  a  re-culmination  of  all  the 
truths  she .  had  ever  known  concerning,  or  even 
remotely  relating  to,  the  not-easily  fathomed  quali- 
ties of  paste  and  ink.  So  she  stood,  focused  in  an 
intensity  of  soul-quivers,  and  I,  all  unrelenting, 
waited,  though  of  a  dim  uncertainty  whether,  after 
all,  it  might  not  be  only  a  dubitant  problem. 


A    Parody    Anthology 


(Swinburne's  version} 

Shall  I  dip,  shall  I  dip  it,  Dolores, 

This  luminous  paste-brush  of  thine  ? 
Shall  I  sully  its  white-breasted  glories, 

Its  fair,  foam-flecked  figure  divine  ? 
*          Or  shall  I  —  abstracted,  unheeding  — 

Swish  swirling  this  pen  in  my  haste, 
And,  deaf  to  thy  pitiful  pleading, 

Just  jab  it  in  paste  ? 

(Eugene  Field's  version') 

See  the  Ink  Bottle  on  the  Desk  !  It  is  full  of 
Nice  Black  Ink.  Why,  the  Paste-Pot  is  there, 
Too !  Let  us  watch  Papa  as  he  sits  down  to 
write.  Oh,  he  is  going  to  paste  a  Second-hand 
Stamp  on  a  Letter.  See,  he  has  dipped  his  Brush 
in  the  Ink  by  Mistake.  Oh,  what  a  Funny  Mis- 
take !  Now,  although  it  is  Winter,  we  may  have 
to  Endure  the  Heated  Term. 

(Stephen    Crane's  version') 

I  stood  upon  a  church  spire, 

A  slender,  pointed  spire, 

And  I  saw 

Ranged  in  solemn  row  before  me, 

A  paste-pot  and  an  ink-pot. 

I  held  in  my  either  hand 

A  pen  and  a  brush. 

Ay,  a  pen  and  a  brush. 

[  366] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Now  this  is  the  strange  part ; 

I  stood  upon  a  church  spire, 

A  slender,  pointed  spire, 

Glad,  exultant, 

Because 

The  choice  was  mine ! 

Ay,  mine  ! 

As  I  stood  upon  a  church  spire, 

A  slender,  pointed  spire. 

(Mr.  Dooley9  s  version) 

"  I  see  by  th'  pa-apers,  Hennessy,"  said  Mr. 
Dooley,  u  that  they'se  a  question  up  for  dee-bate." 

"  What 's  a  dee-bate  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Hennessy; 

u  Well,  it 's  different  from  a  fish-bait,"  returned 
Mr.  Dooley,  "  an'  it 's  like  this,  if  I  can  bate  it 
into  the  thick  head  of  ye.  A  lot  of  people  argyfies 
an'  argyfies  to  decide,  as  in  the  prisint  instance, 
whether  a  man  'd  rayther  shtick  his  pastin'-brush  in 
his  ink-shtand,  or  if  he  'd  like  it  betther  to  be  afther 
dippin'  his  pen  in  his  pashte-pot." 

"Thot,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy,  "is  a  foolish 
question,  an'  only  fools  wud  argyfy  about  such  a 
thing  as  thot." 

"That's  what  makes  it  a  dee-bate,"  said  Mr. 
Dooley. 

Carolyn  Wells. 


I  367  ] 


A    Parody    Ant  ho  logy 


AN   OLD   SONG  BY   NEW  SINGERS 

(Jn  the  original) 

MARY  had  a  little  lamb, 
Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow,  — 
And  everywhere  that  Mary  went 
The  lamb  was  sure  to  go. 

(As  Austin  Dobson  writes  if) 

TRIOLET 

A  little  lamb  had  Mary,  sweet, 

With  a  fleece  that  shamed  the  driven  snow. 
Not  alone  Mary  went  when  she  moved  her  feet 
(For  a  little  lamb  had  Mary,  sweet), 
And  it  tagged  her  'round  with  a  pensive  bleat, 

And  wherever  she  went  it  wanted  to  go; 
A  little  lamb  had  Mary,  sweet, 

With  a  fleece  that  shamed  the  driven  snow. 

(As  Mr.  Browning  has  it) 

You  knew  her  ?  —  Mary  the  small, 
How  of  a  summer,  —  or,  no,  was  it  fall  ? 
You  'd  never  have  thought  it,  never  believed, 
But  the  girl  owned  a  lamb  last  fall. 

Its  wool  was*  subtly,  silky  white, 
Color  of  lucent  obliteration  of  night, 
Like    the    shimmering   snow  or  —  our   Clothildas 
arm  ! 

[  368  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


You've  seen  her  arm  —  her  right,  I  mean  — 
The  other  she  scalded  a-washing,  1  ween  — 
How  white  it  is  and  soft  and  warm? 

Ah,  there  was   soul's   heart-love,  deep,  true,  and 

tender, 

Wherever  went  Mary,  the  maiden  so  slender, 
There  followed,  his  all-absorbed  passion,  inciting, 
That    passionate  lambkin  —  her  soul's    heart  de- 
lighting — 

Ay,  every  place  that  Mary  sought  in, 
That  lamb  was  sure  to  soon  be  caught  in. 

(As  Longfellow  might  have  done  it) 

Fair  the  daughter  known  as  Mary, 
Fair  and  full  of  fun  and  laughter, 
Owned  a  lamb,  a  little  he-goat, 
Owned  him  all  herself  and  solely. 
White  the  lamb's  wool  as  the  Gotchi  — 
The  great  Gotchi,  driving  snowstorm. 
Hither  Mary  went  and  thither, 
But  went  with  her  to  all  places, 
Sure  as  brook  to  run  to  river, 
Her  pet  lambkin  following  with  her. 

(How  Andrew  Lang  sings  it) 

RONDEAU 

A  wonderful  lass  was  Marie,  petite, 
And  she  looked  full  fair  and  passing  sweet  — 
And,  oh  !  she  owned  —  but  cannot  you  guess 
What  pet  can  a  maiden  so  love  and  Caress 
[  24  ]  [  369  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


$  As  a  tiny  lamb  with  a  plaintive  bleat, 
And  mud  upon  his  dainty  feet, 
And  a  gentle  veally  odour  of  meat, 

And  a  fleece  to  finger  and  kiss  and  press  — 
White  as  snow  ? 

Wherever  she  wandered,  in  lane  or  street, 
As  she  sauntered  on,  there  at  her  feet 
She  would  find  that  lambkin  —  bless 
The  dear  !  —  treading  on  her  dainty  dress, 
Her  dainty  dress,  fresh  and  neat  — 
White  as  snow  ! 

(Mr.  Algernon  C.  Swinburne's  idea) 

VILLANELLE 

Dewy-eyed  with  shimmering  hair, 

Maiden  and  lamb  were  a  sight  to  see, 
For  her  pet  was  white  as  she  was  fair. 

And  its  lovely  fleece  was  beyond  compare, 
And  dearly  it  loved  its  Mistress  Marie, 
Dewy-eyed,  with  shimmering  hair. 

Its  warped  wool  was  an  inwove  snare, 

To  tangle  her  fingers  in,  where  they  could  be 
(For  her  pet  was  white  as  she  was  fair). 

Lost  from  sight,  both  so  snow-white  were, 

And  the  lambkin  adored  the  maiden  wee, 
Dewy-eyed  with  shimmering  hair. 
[  370] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


Th'  impassioned  incarnation  of  rare, 

Of  limpid-eyed,  luscious-lipped,  loved  beauty, 
And  her  pet  was  white  as  she  was  fair. 

Wherever  she  wandered,  hither  and  there, 

Wildly  that  lambkin  sought  with  her  to  be, 
With  the  dewy-eyed,  with  shimmering  hair, 
And  a  pet  as  white  as  its  mistress  was  fair. 

A.  C.  Wilkie. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


AESTHETE  TO  THE  ROSE,  THE  Punch 40 

After  Browning 194 

Amateur  Flute,  The 140 

American,  One  of  the  Roughs, 

A  Kosmos,  An 219 

Ancient  Mariner,  The 61 

Angelo  Orders  His  Dinner  .  Bayard  Taylor  .  .  205 

Annabel  Lee Stanley  Huntley  .  .  147 

Answer  to  Master  Withers 

Song,    "  Shall     I,     Wasting 

in  Despair?" Ben  Jonson  ...  25 

Atalanta  in  Camden-Town  .  Leivis  Carroll  .  .  270 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Cock  .  .  Owen  Seaman  .  .  248 

BABY'S  OMAR,  THE      .      .      .    Carolyn  Wells        .      .  12 

Bachelor's  Soliloquy,  The 17 

Ballad Charles  S.  Cal<verley  253 

Ballad,  A Guy  Wetmore  Carryl  307 

Ballade  of  Ballade-Mongers,  A    Augustus  M.  Moore    .  322 

Bat,  The  . Lewis  Carroll       .      .  82 

Bather's  Dirge,  The       .      .      .     Tennyson  Minor    .      .  155 

Beautiful  Snow .      .      .  324 

Bed  During  Exams  ....    Clara  Warren  Vail   .  298 

Behold  the  Deeds !    .      .      .      .    H.  C.  Bunner       .      .  319 

Bells,  The Judy 148 

Birds  and  the  Pheasant,  The    .    Punch 131 

Biter  Bit,  The     .....     William  Aytoun    .      .  161 

Bo-Peep. Anthony  C.  Deane      .  294 

B  >ston  Nursery  Rhymes     .      .    Rev.  Joseph  Cook       .  32 

Burial  of  the  Bachelor,  The 88 

By  the  Sea      .      .      .      .      .      .    Bayard  Taylor     .      .  203 

[  375  ] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


CAMERADOS Bayard  Taylor     .     .  220 

Cannibal  Flea,  The       .      .      .  Tom  Hood,  Jr.     .     .  145 

Cantelope,  The Bayard  Taylor     .      .  243 

Christmas  Wail,  A .      .      .  252 

Cimabuella Bayard  Taylor     .      .  255 

Cock  and  the  Bull,  The     .      .  Charles  S.  Cal<verley  195 
Cockney      Enigma       on       the 

Letter  H Horace  Mayheiv        .  49 

Commonplaces Rudyard  Kipling        .  97 

Crocodile,  The    .      .      .     .      .  Lewis  Carroll       .      .  43 

Cult  of  the  Celtic,  The       .      .  Anthony  C.  Deane      .  317 

Culture  in  the  Slums      .      .      .  W.  E.  Henley       .     .  322 

DESOLATION Tom  Masson   .     .     .  130 

De  Tea  Fabula A  T.  Quitter-Couch  .  289 

Disaster Charles  S.  Catoer ley  79 

Domicile  of  John,  The       .      .  A.  Pope      ....  34 

Dreary  Song,  A        ....  Shirley  Brooks       .      .  20 

ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN,  THE  .  George  Canning   .     .  328 

Estunt  the  Griff Rudyard  Kipling  .     '.  235 

Excelsior 124 

FATHER  WILLIAM   ....  Lewis  Carroll      .     .  67 

Flight  of  the  Bucket,  The       .  Rudyard  Kipling        .  206 

Foam  and  Fangs       .      ...  Walter  Parke        .      .  278 
Fragment       in     Imitation      of 

Wordsworth C.  M.  Fanshawe       .  52 

Fuzzy  Wuzzy  Leaves  us     .      .  E.  P.  C.     .      .      .      .  305 

GAELIC    SPEECH  j   or    "  Auld 

Lang   Syne"    Done    Up    in 

Tartan 4 

Gillian 268 

Goblin  Goose,  The        ."    .      .    Punch 150 

Godiva Oliver  Herford    .     .  177 

Golfer's  Rubaiyat,  The      .      .  H.  W.  Boynton     .      .  3 

Grievance,  A J.  K.  Stephen        .      .  85 

Gwendoline Bayard  Taylor     .     .  118 

[  376] 


Index   of  Titles 


HADRAMAUT Bayard  Taylor  .  .  233 

Heathen  Pass-ee,  The  .  .  .  A.  C.  Hilton  .  .  .  286 

Higher 120 

Higher  Pantheism  in  a  Nutshell, 

The  .  .* Algernon  C.  Swinburne  180 

Hiram  Hover Bayard  Taylor  .  .  133 

Horse  and  His  Master,  The  Philip  F.  Allen  .  .  136 
Home  Sweet  Home  with 

Variations  Henry  C.  Banner  .  334 

Home  Truths  from  Abroad 193 

House  that  Jack  Built,  The  .  Samuel  T.  Coleridge  3 i 

How  Often Ben  King  .  .  .  .  129 

IDYLL  OF  PHATTE  AND  LEENE, 

AN 29 

If! Mortimer  Collins  .     .  274 

If  I  Should  Die  To-Night        .    Ben  King    .     .      .     .  331 

Imitation  .           Henry  C.  Bunner       .  96 

Imitation  of  Robert  Browning    J.  K.  Stephen        .      .  210 

Imitation  of  Walt  Whitman    .    Judy 221 

Imitation    of    Walt    Whitman    J.  K.  Stephen       .      .  224 

Imitation Anthony  C.  Deane      .  296 

In  Immemorian Cuthbert  Bede       .      .  174 

In  the  Gloaming      ....    Charles  S.  Calverley  116 

I  Remember,  I  Remember       .    Phcebe  Gary     .     .      .  101 

JACK  AND  JILL Anthony  C.  Deane      .  309 

Jack  and  Jill Charles  Battell  Loomis  348 

Jacob Phcebe  Gary     ...  51 

Jam-Pot,  The Rudyard  Kipling  .     .  210 

Jane  Smith Rudyard  Kipling  .     .  54 

John  Thompson's  Daughter     .    Phcebe  Gary     ...  73 

LADY  JANE A.  T.  Quitter-Couch  69 

Last  Cigar,  The 76 

Last  Ride  Together,  The  .      .    J.  K.  Stephen       .      .  212 

Laureate,  The William  Aytoun    .     .  163 

[377] 


A    Parody     Anthology 


laureate's  Log,  A  ....  Punch 178 

La  ueate's  Tourney,  The  .  .  William  Aytoun  .  .  105 

Lay  of  Macaroni,  The  .  .  Bayard  Taylor  .  .  284 

Luy  of  the  Lovelorn,  The  .  .  William  Aytoun  .  .  165 

Le  end  of  Realism,  The  .  .  Hilda  Johnson-  .  .  313 
..in-s  Written  ("By  Re- 

cj  ;Cit  ")  for  a  Dinner  of  the 

();iiar  Khayyam  Club  .  .  Owen  Seaman  .  .  10 

Little  Jack  Homer  .  .  /  .  .  Anthony  C.  Deane  .  315 

Little  Miss  Muffet 156 

L  hster  Quadrille,  The  .  .  Lewis  Carroll  .  .  114 

J,»t  Ape,  The J.  W.  G.  W.  .  .  245 

Lo.t  Voice,  The  .  .  .  .  A.  H.  S 244 

i..».|  Word,  The  .  .  .  .  C.  H .  Webb  ...  246 

L  »ve  and  Science 153 

Lovers,  and  a  Reflection  .  .  Charles  S.  Calmer  lev  .  259 

L  »ve  Song,  A Dean  Swift  .  ;  .  331 

I  ucy  Lake Newton  Mackintosh  .  57 

MAID  OF  THE  MEERSCHAUM, 

THE Rudyard  Kipling  .      .  275 

Manlet,  The        .      .      .      .      .    Lewis  Carrol/      .      .  272 

Man1    Place  in  Nature 191 

Marriage   of   Sir    John    Smith, 

The       .......    Phcebe  Gary     ...  91 

M.iry  and  the  Lamb      .      .      .    Frank  D.  Sherman     .  37 

Maudle-in  Ballad,  A     ...    Punch 300 

Melton  Mowbray  Pork-Pie,  A    Richard  Le  Gallienne  278 

Modern  Hiawatha,  The      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  120 

Modern  Rubaiyat,  The       .      .     Kate  Master  son     .      ..  7 
.Modern   Versification    on    An- 
cient Themes        .      .      .      .    Elizabeth  Cavazza  346 

M  ;re  Impressions     ....     Oscuro  Wildgoose        .  299 

Musical  Pitch,  The 158 

Mutton ' 113 

My  Foe 46 

NEPHELJDIA A.  C.  Swinburne       .  282 

N  -ttl  \  The Bayard  Taylor     .      .  231 

[  3-3  1 


Index    of   Titles 


New  Arrival,  The    ....    George  W.  Cable  .      .  72 
Newe  t    Tiling     in     Christmas 

Carols,  The, 325 

New  Version,  The    .      .      .      .     W.  J.  Lampton    .      .  138 

Not  a  Sou  had  he  Got               .    R.  Harris  Barbam     .  89 

Nursery  Rhymes  a  la  Mode 299 

Nursery  Song  in  Pidgin  English 30 

ODE,  AN  . Anthony  C.  Deane      .  237 

Ode  on  a  Jar  of  Pickles       .      .     Bayard  Taylor      .      .  94 

Ode  to  a  London  Fog 239 

Of  Friendship Charles  S.  Calmer  ley  .  185 

Of  Reading Charles  S.  Calverley  .  186 

Old  Fashioned  Fun                    .     W.  M.  Thackeray      .  333 
Old  Man's  Cold  and  How  He 

Got  It,  The 66 

Old  Song  by  New  Singers,  An    A.  C.  Wilkie  .      .      .  368 

Omar  for  Ladies,  An     .      .      .    Josephine  D.  Bacon    .  5 

Only  Seven     .      .      .      .      .      .    Henry  S.  Leigh     .      .  55 

O.i  Wordsworth 51 

Oyster-Crabs Carolyn  Wells       .      .  41 

POET    AND    THE    WOODLOUSE, 

THE A.  C.  Swinburne .      .  224 

P.>ets  at  a  House-Party        .      .     Carolyn  Wells        .      .  363 

Poets  at  Tea,  The   ....    Barry  Pain      .      .      .  359 

"*oker 1 8 

'ortrait,  A John  Keats      ...  15 

'ooter  Girl,  The      ....    Carolyn  Wells        .      .  257 

'resident  Garfield 21; 

\<»digals,  The          292 

nnissory  Note,  The  .      .      .    Bayard  Taylor     .      .  143 

>pinquity  Needed        .      .      .     Charles  B.  Loomis      .  241 

ilm  of  Life,  A      ....    Pbcebe  Cary     .      .      .  127 

QUAERITUR Rudyard  Kipling  .      .  277 

Quite  the  Cheese       .      .      .      ,     H.  C.   Waring      .      .  302 

[   379  ] 


A     Parody    Anthology 


RECOGNITION,  THE      .     .      .    William  Sawyer  .     .  180 
Rejected  "  National  Hymns," 

The Robert  H.  Newell      .  352 

'Remember      .     «   ,,    •>-..    .      .    Judy 263 

Rigid  Body  Sings     ....    J.C.Maxwell    .     .  48 

Rout  of  Belgravia,  The      .      .    Jon  Duan  ....  84 

SAMUEL  BROWN        ....    Phabe  Gary     .     .     .  142 

Sarah's  Halls Judy 80 

Self-Evident   .      .      .      .      .      .    J.  R.  Planch'e      .      .  104 

Shrimp-Gatherers,  The       .      .    Bayard  Taylor     .     .  261 

Sir  Eggnogg Bayard  Taylor     .      .  175 

Some  Day F.  P.  Doveton      .      .  329 

Song Oliver  Herford    .     .  27 

Song James   Whitcomb  Riley  22 

Song  of  a  Heart,  A       .     .     .    Oliver  Herford    .      .  33 

Song  of  Renunciation,  A    .      .    Owen  Seaman      .      .  279 

Song  of  the  Sheet 98 

"  Songs  Without  Words"       .    Robert  J.  Bur dette     .  327 

Staccato  to  O  Le  Lupe,  A       .    Bliss  Carman       .      .  200 

Striking Charles  S.  Calmer  ley  64 

TALE  OF  LORD  LOVELL,  THE 326 

Tea,  The Tom  Hood,  Jr.    .     .  82 

"  The  Day  is  Done "    .      .      .    Phoebe  Gary     .      .     .  126 
Theme  with  Variations,  A       .    Barry  Pain     .     .     .  356 
"  There's   a   Bower    of    Bean- 
Vines"  Phxbe  Gary     ...  78 

Three  Blessings 41 

Three  Little  Fishers   ,   .     .     .    Frank  H.  Stauffer     .  229 

Three  Mice,  The     ....    Anthony  C.  Deane      .  304 

Three  Poets,  The    •.     .     .      .    Lilian  Whiting     .     .  230 

Thyroid  Gland,  The     .      .      .    R.  M. 93 

Timbuctoo.  —  Part  I.   .      .      .     W.  M.   Thackeray     .  183 

To  an  Importunate  Host 158 

To  Julia  Under  Lock  and  Key    Owen  Seaman      .      .  27 

Toothache 19 

Topside  Galah! 122 

[  380] 


Index   of  Titles 


To  the  Stall-Holders  at  a  Fancy 

Fair W.  S.  Gilbert       .      .  21 

Turtle  Soup Lewis  Carroll      .      .  329 

* T  was  Ever  Thus    ....    Henry  S.  Leigh     .      .  8 1 

'Twas  Ever  Thus 77 

UP  THE  SPOUT A.  C.  Swinburne.     .  215 

VILLAGE  CHOIR,  THE  . 159 

Voice  of  the  Lobster,  The        .    Lewis  Carroll      .      .  42 
Vulture   and   the    Husbandman, 

The       .      .     .      .      .      .      .    A.  C  Hilton    ...  265 

WAGGAWOCKY Shirley  Brooks      .      .  264 

What  Troubled  Poe's  Raven  .    John  Bennett  .      .      .  139 

When  Lovely  Woman  .      .      .    Phoebe  Gary    ...  44 

Whist-Player's  Soliloquy,  The    Carolyn  Wells       .      .  23 

Willow-Tree,  The  .      .     .      .    W.  M.  Thackeray     .  188 

YE  CLERKE  OF  YE  WETHERE 14 

Young  Lochinvar 58 

Yule-Tide  Parody,  A 103 


[38'  ] 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


ALLEN,   PHILIP  F. 

The  Horse  and  His  Master 136 

AYTOUN,   WILLIAM 

The  Laureate's  Tourney 105 

The  Biter  Bit 161 

The  Laureate  ...0 163 

The  Lay  of  the  Lovelorn 165 

BACON,  JOSEPHINE  DASKAM 

An  Omar  for  Ladies 5 

BARHAM,  R.  HARRIS  • 

Not  a  Sou  Had  He  Got 89 

BEDE,  CUTHBERT 

In  Immemoriam 174 

BENNETT,  JOHN 

What  Troubled  Poe's  Raven 9  139 

BOYNTON,  H.  W. 

The  Golfer's  Rubaiyat 3 

BROOKS,  SHIRLEY 

A  Dreary  Song 20 

Waggawocky .  .  .  «  « .  *  264 

BUNNER,  HENRY  CUYLER 

Imitation 96 

Behold  the  Deeds  !      .      .      .      .        '-,*.. :.-     .     i      3 1 9 

Home  Sweet  Home  with  Variations  .  .  .  .  334 
BURDETTE,  ROBERT  J. 

"  Songs  Without  Words  " 327 

CABLE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON 

The  New  Arrival ^72 

CALVERLEY,  CHARLES  S. 

Striking 64 

1 25  j  [  385  i 


A    Parody    Anthology 


CALVERLEY,  CHARLES  S.  —  Continued 

Disaster 79 

In  the  Gloaming 116 

Of  Friendship 185 

Of  Reading        .      . 186 

The  Cock  and  the  Bull 195 

Ballad 253 

Lovers,  and  a  Reflection 259 

CANNING,  GEORGE 

The  Elderly  Gentleman 328 

CARMAN,  BLISS 

A  Staccato  to  O  Le  Lupe     .......  200 

CARROLL,   LEWIS 

The  Voice  of  the  Lobster 42 

The  Crocodile       .'     A     ,x  .     * 43 

Father  William 67 

The  Bat       .      .' 82 

The  Lobster  Quadrille 114 

Atalanta  in  Camden-Town 270 

The  Manlet 272 

Turtle  Soup 329 

CARRYL,  GUY  WETMORE 

A  Ballad „  :-*  .  >      .     .      .  307 

GARY,  PHCEBE 

When  Lovely  Woman 44 

Jacob 51 

John  Thompson's  Daughter 73 

"  There  "s  a  Bower  of  Bean-Vines  "    ....  78 

The  Marriage  of  Sir  John  Smith     .  91 

I  Remember,  I  Remember    .      -.      .      .      .      .      .  101 

"  The  Day  is  Done  " 126 

A  Psalm  of  Life    .      .      . 127 

Samuel  Brown 142 

CAVAZZA,   ELIZABETH 

Modern  Versification  on  Ancient  Themes       .      .  346 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR 

The  House  That  Jack  Built       .      .      .     .     *  31 

[  386] 


Index    of  Authors 


MASTERSON,  KATE 

The  Modern  Rubaiyat  ....  j  ...  7 
MAXWELL,  J.  C. 

Rigid  Body  Sings 48 

MAYHEW,  HORACE 

Cockney  Enigma  on  the  Letter  H 49 

MINOR,  TENNYSON 

The  Bather's  Dirge .  155 

MOORE,  AUGUSTUS  M. 

A  Ballade  of  Ballade-Mongers         322 

NEWELL,  ROBERT  HENRY 

The  Rejected  "  National  Hymns"       .     .     .     .      352 

PAIN,  BARRY 

A  Theme  with  Variations 356 

The  Poets  at  Tea 359 

PARKE,  WALTER 

Foam  and  Fangs 278 

PLANCH^,  J.  R. 

Self-Evident .  104 

POPE,  A. 

The  Domicile  of  John 34 

PUNCH 

The  Aesthete  to  the  Rose 40 

The  Birds  and  the  Pheasant 131 

The  Goblin  Goose 150 

A  Laureate's  Log        .........  178 

A  Maudle-in  Ballad 300 

QUILLER-COUCH,  A.   T. 

Lady  Jane 69 

De  Tea  Fabula 28; 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB 

Song 22 

SAWYER,  WILLIAM 

The  Recognition «.     .      180 

[  389] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


SEAMAN,  OWEN 

Lines  Written  («  By  Request")  for  a  Dinner  of 

the  Omar  Khayyam  Club 10 

To  Julia  Under  Lock  and  Key 27 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Cock 248 

A  Song  of  Renunciation 279 

SHERMAN,  FRANK  DEMPSTER 

Mary  and  the  Lamb 37 

STAUFFER,  FRANK  H. 

Three  Little  Fishers 229 

STEPHEN,  J.   K. 

A  Grievance 85 

Imitation  of  Robert  Browning 210 

The  Last  Ride  Together 212 

Imitation  of  Walt  Whitman 224 

SWIFT,  DEAN 

A  Love  Song 331 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES 

The  Higher  Pantheism  in  a  Nutshell    .     .     .     .  180 

Up  the  Spout 215 

The  Poet  and  the  Woodlouse 224 

Nephelidia 282 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 

Ode  on  a  Jar  of  Pickles 94 

Gwendoline 118 

Hiram  Hover 133 

The  Promissory  Note 143 

Sir  Eggnogg i75 

By  the  Sea 201 

Angelo  Orders  His  Dinner 205 

Camerados 22c 

The  Nettle 231 

Hadramaut 233 

The  Cantelope 243 

Cimabuella 255 

The  Shrimp-Gatherers .     .  261 

The  Lay  of  Macaroni 284 

[  39°  j 


Index    of  Authors 


THACKERAY,  W.   M. 

Timbuctoo.  —  Part  1 183 

The  Willow-Tree .     .      .     .  188 

Old  Fashioned  Fun 333 

VAIL,  CLARA  WARREN 

Bed  During  Exams 29 

WARING,  H.   C. 

Quite  the  Cheese   .           3°~ 

WEBB,  C.  H. 

The  Lost  Word *4* 

WELLS,  CAROLYN 

The  Baby's  Omar 12 

The  Whist-Player's  Soliloquy 23 

Oyster-Crabs 41 

The  Poster  Girl 257 

The  Poets  at  a  House-Party 363 

WHITING,  LILIAN 

The  Three  Poets        . 23° 

WlLDGOOSE,  OSCURA    . 

More  Impressions 299 

WILKIE,  A.  C. 

An  Old  Song  by  New  Singers   .     ,     ,     .     .      .368 


1 391  1 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 
PARODIED 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 
PARODIED 


ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 355 

Austin,  Alfred 237 

BROWNING,  MRS 116 

Browning,  Robert .    193,  360,  368 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 354 

Bunn,  Alfred .103 

Burns,  Robert  .     .      .     , 45,  363 

Byron 84 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS 72 

Carroll,  Lewis 264 

Chaucer 14,  365 

Coleridge 61 

Cornwall,  Barry 83 

Cowper 360 

Crane,  Stephen    .      .      .      ...    •  .  '»     V     .     .     .     >     .  366 

DICKENS,  CHARLES 191 

Dobson,  Austin *9^>  339>  34^>  3^8 

Dooley,  Mr 367 

Dryden , .  .  > -    ;: 41 

EMERSON 113,  354 

FANSHAWE,  CATHERINE 49 

Field,  Eugene 366 

[395] 


A    Parody    Anthology 


GILBERT,  W.  S 239 

Goldsmith,  Oliver          , 44,  340 

HARTE,  BRET     .     .     ;,    .     .     .     .     .     .     .       286,  337 

Heine 96 

Hemans,  Mrs *    .     .     «    Y    ,~    ...  93 

Henley,  W.  E.  . 296 

Herrick .     .....  27 

Holmes,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 353 

Hood,  Thomas  .      .      .'-.-...     .     .     .     .      .     .  98 

Horace 339 

Houghton,  Lord 153 

Howitt,  Mary 114 

INGELOW,  JEAN .     259 

JAMES,  HENRY ..»-..     .     365 

KEATS 94 

Khayyam,  Omar 3,  364 

Kingsley,  Charles 229 

Kipling,  Rudyard 305,  364 

LANG,  ANDREW .V      294,  369 

Longfellow,  Henry  W 120,  352,  369 

M/.CAULAY,  LORD 105,  359 

MacLeod,  Fiona 317 

Meredith,  George 248 

Moore,  Thomas '    ;"*    .  76 

Morris,  William 235 

NORTON,  MRS.       ..*.*_......     136 

Nursery  Rhymes      .      .     *     . 29 

OMAR  KHAYYAM 3,  364 

PHILLIPS,  STEPHEN 315 

Po- ,  Edgar  Allan 139,  362 

[  396  ] 


Index    of  Authors    Parodied 

Pope,  Alexander 340 

Popular  Songs 324 

Procter,  A.  A 244 

ROSSETTI,   CHRISTINA 263 

Rossetti,  D.  G •     *        252,  362 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER 58,  358 

Shakespeare 17 

Southey,  Robert 66 

Spenser,  Edmund *  5 »  3  5  6 

Stevenson,  R.  L.      .      . 298 

Stoddard,  Mrs.  R.  H 231 

Stoddard,  R.  H 243 

Swift,  Dr.  Jonathan .      357 

Swinburne,  Algernon  C.    .     268,  335,  349,  360,  366,  370 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 233 

Taylor,  Jane 82 

Tennyson •    ,*     •        I55>  359 

Thackeray 188 

Tupper *  #*"«SR     •      l85 

VERS  DE  SOCIE'TE' .     .     319 

WALLER 4° 

Watson,  William     .     , 304 

Watts,  Doctor 42 

Whitman 219,  341,  349,  363,  364 

Whittier 133,  353 

Wilde,  Oscar 299 

Willis,  N.  P 355 

Wither 25 

Wolfe,  Charles 88 

Wordsworth        .      . 51,  361 

YEATS,  W.  B 3'7 

[  397  ] 


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